


The Mage's Slave

by VincentMeoblinn



Series: Mage Series [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bat!John, Consent Issues, Dom/sub, Dragon!Lock, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, Kings & Queens, M/M, Magic, Mass Murder, Merlin/Arthur mentioned, Minor Character Death, Orgasm Denial, Past Child Abuse, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Sociopathic Sherlock, Undead, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 14:41:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 23
Words: 57,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Mycroft are the descendants of King Arthur and Merlin in a world where magic prevailed over technology and King Arthur was never defeated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the slaves standing before him. He was being given first choice this time because his last ten slaves had run away… well the last two had killed themselves and one several slaves back had died rather gruesomely, but he counted it the same. The bunch was rather pathetic this time, but Mycroft was calmly walking amongst them asking questions to find out their worth. Things like literacy, knowledge of herbs, age, and gender were of concern to Sherlock; he only preferred male slaves under the age of 30 since he was planning on using them for sex as well. Physical attractiveness, however, was less important than usefulness so he did not include that in his parameters.

Mycroft Pendragon – his half brother from his father’s concubine – knew all of Sherlock’s requirements and culled out the ineligible with perfect efficiency. While he disliked both of his brothers, Mycroft was by far the more intelligent of the two and Sherlock spent most of his time around him when he wasn’t able to avoid his family altogether.

Sherrinford Pendragon was the Heir-Apparent, an unintelligent muscle-bound gorilla of a man, and Sherlock’s childhood bully. He despised his future king and hoped his study of Magic would free him of his courtly duties by allowing him to take a small cabin in a wood somewhere to continue his research. Sherrinford, of course, knew of his hatred and did everything in his power to alleviate it now that he knew his youngest brother was a force to be reckoned with. His attempts at camaraderie failed constantly.

Siger Pendragon, king and father, was an intelligent but impatient man who ruled with an iron fist and a keen wit. Sixth descendent of Mage Merlin and King Arthur’s only daughter, his and his children’s last names were technically Holmes by marriage, but it was never used by royal decree. His intelligence was only dampened by his temper; his enemies knew not to provoke him on fear of death. Several had been dispatched so silently and stealthily that it was rumored that Sherlock was in fact not the sickly young man he appeared to be, but a deadly assassin trained in all forms of murder and Magic. It was only partly true.

Eventually three young men were separated from the rest and he studied them calmly. One of them (sixteen, from outer provinces, sold due to a family debt, debt was likely gambling, preferred both genders) was stunningly attractive, but far too young for Sherlock’s interests and a few questions showed his worth intellectually to be nil. The second (thirty, healer, soldier, strong moral principal, keen sense of humor, heterosexual) was a bit older than he usually preferred, but apparently had been trained as a healer from birth; he had been a physician who had been captured during their last battle with King Moriarty. The third (twenty-five, herbologist, straight-laced, homosexual) was almost perfect, but Sherlock noted his shifty eyes and labeled him ‘flight risk’ immediately.

“You there,” Sherlock pointed to the man in the middle again, “Step forward.”

The blonde healer took a step forward and bowed his head a bit. Sherlock stepped down and ran an analyzing eye over the man.

“He’ll do,” Sherlock decided.

“John Watson,” Mycroft read off the list, “Well, just ‘John’ now. We can’t have slaves putting on airs. Unless you prefer to change his name?”

“I doubt I’ll remember it any better if it’s another name. John will do. Follow me, slave, and do try to remember the way,” Sherlock ordered.

The slave trailed after him and Sherlock led him to his own chambers.

“You’ll be responsible for all my needs, day or night. During winter or other particularly chill nights you will keep me warm by sharing my bed. Are you a virgin?”

“N-no sire.”

“Pity, it’s said they’re warmer. Ah, well, can’t have everything. It wouldn’t have lasted anyway.”

Sherlock pointed out where everything was and ordered the slave not to touch his lab under any circumstances. Sherlock took care of the cleaning in there himself after one slave had died a particularly nasty death; the mess his body had made had been appalling.

“You’ll find I can be quite the taskmaster, and I do expect you to obey without question. Most of your physical labor will be quite different than the other slaves; mainly you will be my personal slave, catamite, and test subject. There is a pump in my laboratory for water. You will bathe daily, whether you need it or not, and make sure your private areas are _always_ clean and ready for my use. I may go days or even weeks without requiring it, but you will not slack off despite that; you will be available and ready when I do want you.”

“Sire? I think there’s been some sort of mistake,” The slave stated, and Sherlock noted his calm but concerned expression.

“Oh, what kind of mistake?”

“You said ‘catamite’ sire.”

“You have some dispute with that term?”

“No sire, it’s just that I don’t prefer my own gender… It’s fine, of course, if you do, but I prefer women.”

Sherlock felt that surge of cold anger that usually followed a comment like that one.

“I know it’s fine, _slave_ , but what you don’t seem to understand is your position. You are no longer a free man. If I wanted to, I could order the guard outside that door to come in here and run you through. He would do it without blinking an eye. In fact, if a _servant_ asked him to, he would do it without batting an eyelash, because you are a _slave._ The fact that you are _my slave_ affords you some protection from the other servants, serfs, and guards, and some rank over a few other slaves, but you are in fact _a slave_. If I choose to make you my _sex slave_ , catamite, or pincushion then that is what you will be and you will bow down and thank me that the only sword piercing your flesh is the one between my thighs. Do you understand now?”

“Y-yes sire,” John replied, his face bloodless.

“Then the mistake was?”

“Mine, sire.”

“Good. You catch on fast. Now draw me a bath,” Sherlock ordered, and the slave rushed to obey, “Oh, and slave? Your body will be mine and mine alone. I have remained disease free thus far, and I don’t want you polluting me. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Hurry with the bath, then. I’m tired.”

Sherlock watched the now very pale doctor snatch up the bucket labeled ‘bath’ (the reason a literate slave was needed was to avoid mixing up his labeled equipment and causing damage) and hurry into the lab to pump the water. Sherlock had a ground floor suite for a reason; his lab required he have access to running water at all times. His lab was actually a renovated bath, but you’d never know it now. His chambers were once the changing room for the bath but his abilities as an Earth Mage had enabled him to alter them. His was the smallest suite amongst his brothers, but he wasn’t concerned with such trivialities as who had the bigger rooms (Mycroft) or the most friends (Sherrinford) or the most power (Father) or the most lovers (Mummy).

Sherlock was concerned about The Work; namely in his laboratory or amongst the people. Sherlock helped Sir Lestrade met out justice in the kingdom, and his opinion on everything from thievery to murder was often sought out. Sometimes he was disinterested, especially when he became melancholy, but he thought this slave might help with that problem. He’d have to make sure he didn’t break this one. Unlike his previous slaves, this one had been born a freeman and educated as such. This must be a terrible shock for him; Sherlock was prepared to be somewhat patient.

Sherlock tried to give the shaking man a smile when he returned, but he was pointedly avoiding his gaze. Well enough. Sherlock wasn’t the most social person in the world. John heated the water in the cauldron put aside for regular use and Sherlock busied himself reading a few scrolls while he waited. Once the small wooden tub was filled with hot water Sherlock stepped forward and extended his arms. A few seconds passed before John began to undress him.

Finally he lowered his lanky limbs into the water, leaning heavily on John, and sat down in the wide wooden tub. John held out the soap to him and Sherlock gave him an annoyed look until he figured out what he should be doing and began washing him. Once he’d been scrubbed down, dried off, and redressed in his nightgown he crawled into bed and waited for John to join him.

John emptied Sherlock’s tub down the drain in the floor of his lab and then drew a bath for himself. Sherlock watched him strip with open desire, enjoying the view despite the slaves attempts to hide his better parts from view. John was surprisingly muscular for a healer, but then he had been serving in war so perhaps they’d insisted he be in shape.

“You’ll sleep naked, by the way,” Sherlock mentioned when he paused to look at his only outfit in confusion.

Once John climbed into bed with Sherlock he laid flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. His face was composed but his breathing was a bit fast. Sherlock moved closer and draped an arm and a leg over him, letting his erection press against the slave’s hip. John sucked in a breath and held it, his eyes widening in alarm.

“The candle?” Sherlock reminded.

John seemed reticent to blow it out, as though Sherlock would only use his body if it were dark, but then he turned on his side and blew out the candle. He rolled over again quickly and Sherlock chuckled as he realized the fool was hesitant to turn his back to him.

“Turn on your side, facing me,” Sherlock ordered.

John complied and Sherlock pressed against the slave and rubbed his hard on against the man’s hip. He recoiled a bit so Sherlock gripped his arsecheek tightly with one hand and thrust harder. It felt so good to have a warm body in his bed again, and one so firm and shapely as well. John had weight in just the right places, a soft belly to rub against and a full round ass to grab onto. His chest was covered in a generous coating of hair that teased Sherlock’s nipples and left him panting. The man was completely un-aroused, but he didn’t do these sorts of things for his partners’ benefit. Sherlock slipped a finger between John’s cheeks and pressed against his entrance, causing the man to gasp and jerk forward. His unintentional thrust brought Sherlock over the edge and he groaned out his pleasure into that heady scented shoulder.

“Mmmm, you smell good,” Sherlock moaned. He usually appreciated the scent of another man, but John was absolutely divine, “Did you know the chemicals released from the brain cause us to crave the scent of the person who gave us an orgasm most recently? It’s a way to force us to copulate again.”

“Brains have chemicals?” John asked in alarm, and then tried to pull away, but Sherlock kept him tightly pressed against himself.

Sherlock chuckled, “Everything has chemicals. I forget that as a doctor you have only the limited knowledge of the human body. I have conducted many studies on the human brain.”

“Can you fix one that’s been damaged?”

“To a certain extent,” Sherlock sighed, releasing the squirming man.

John fetched a flannel and wetted it to wash himself off before bringing it to Sherlock and cleaning him off as well. Then they scrambled back under the covers, shivering in the chill night, and Sherlock coaxed John into wrapping his arms around him and spooning with him.

“I’ve a delicate constitution,” Sherlock explained, “My health occasionally wanes. Your responsibility will be to provide for me in any way I need. Heat is especially important as I chill easily.”

John snorted: “You chill easily because you’re so thin.”

“I chill easily,” Sherlock snapped, “Because I’m often too ill to eat and therefore _remain_ thin. Mind your tongue or I’ll have it cut out… despite the uses I intend to put it to.”

That statement was apparently a bit not good because the man stiffened behind him and refused to relax for the rest of the night. Sherlock got little sleep with such an anxious bedfellow and they both rose the next morning looking tired and drawn.

[CHAPTER TWO](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/26005.html)

 


	2. Chapter 2

John had no idea how he had ended up captured. It had been the last battle of the year in the fall, right before the weather became too hazardous to send troops out so far. He’d been hit from behind while tending a wounded soldier and lost consciousness. When he’d awoken he had been in a prison. Nearly three months was he worked in the mines before being washed, trimmed, and dragged before princes Mycroft and Sherlock Pendragon. Then off and into bed with a spoiled prince who couldn’t even wash his own arse!

XXX

John couldn’t get he feel of the man’s touch off of his body, especially his bony hips and hard cock grinding against him while he chased his climax. John had never found revulsion in the male form until now. True the prince was attractive, but his greedy thrusts disgusted John in all ways. He was certain he’d be violently ill the next time the arrogant fop decided to lay hands on him. Luckily that wouldn’t be for some time.

XXX

For the next several days they got into a comfortable routine that actually _didn’t_ involve sex. Sherlock was far too busy with an experiment on the degradation of tissue when exposed to large quantities of sunlight during winter. Therefore they spent a great portion of their time outside, first to collect bodies off the battlefield and then to place them in a field safe from attack. Sherlock had John pitch a tent and they spent their time studying the bodies as they slowly decomposed.

“The sun is having less effect than I would have thought,” Sherlock muttered one day as he examined the difference between a naked corpse, a corpse in clothing, and a corpse in full armor.

“The armor does seem to be the deciding factor, at least where the sun is concerned,” John agreed.

“Yes, he’s practically baking in there, whereas the other two are less effected. At least we don’t have many insects to contend with. They ruined this same study during the summer, that’s why I decided to perform it now that the frost has come in. I just hope we don’t get snow.”

“Doesn’t this make you ill?”

“No, why would it?”

“It’s human remains…!” John started with his voice raised quite a bit, but he stopped when Sherlock scowled over his shoulder, “Never mind, sire.”

“Never mind, indeed. If we were at court I would have been forced to have you punished for such a display. Learn to keep it to yourself before we return.”

“Yes sire. I meant no disrespect just… awe that you can stomach this. It makes my skin crawl, though it doesn’t make me ill either.”

“The two sensations are unrelated?”

“Apparently, yes. I’m acclimatized to violence, bloodshed, the human body in various states of decomposition…”

“They why does this alarm you?”

“Perhaps because you’re making a study of it? I’m not sure. You’re brilliant, that can’t be argued, but I just don’t see the point to this… desecration.”

“Your argument, then, is with the use to which I’ve put human bodies?”

“I wasn’t trying to argue,” John replied immediately, “I was…”

“Rational discussions are welcome,” Sherlock stated, cutting him off with a hand motion, “The rate of decomposition in human remains in various states of dress will allow me to determine when disease can begin to spread to the populace. I’ve already done several that include insect population and heat.”

John’s face lit up with understanding and excitement.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, “That is especially important during war. I can dictate which efforts are more important: tending the minor wounds of the living or sending people out to collect the dead to avoid plague.”

“That’s fantastic!” John agreed, grinning from ear to ear, “I had no idea I…”

“That and I like to see chemical reactions,” Sherlock continued, eager for more praise, “Which the decomposition of a body is, in the end. You can see the gasses…”

John’s face had lost some enthusiasm, but still seemed interested despite the turn their conversation had taken. Sherlock was fully prepared to make his curiosity seem much more showy, but at that point they both rose from their inspection at the sound of a hooves approaching. A mule being led by a horse approached them revealing a couple of servants from the kitchens bringing them fresh supplies. John hurried forward to unload them while Sherlock spoke to the male servant.

“What word from my father?”

“None sire.”

“Good, less is more with him. John, get that all packed away and then get a bath ready for us both. I doubt I’ll be sleeping but you’ll keep me warm while I do a bit of thinking, anyway.”

John hurried to do as told and Sherlock admired his body despite the thick clothes he wore for warmth. Then he noticed the female servant making eyes at John, and John making them right back. Sherlock stood up and crossed to her with a sharp step.

“You will inform the rest of the staff that John is entirely off limits. I don’t think I have to remind anyone what happened the last time someone touched one of my slaves.”

The woman paled and stammered that she would do so immediately and she was sure _no one_ would ever touch his slave. John watched the exchange in alarm and questioned him as to what had happened once the pair had left.

“I had them both publicly flogged. The servant who thought herself allowed to touch my slave developed an infection and died.”

John gave him a frightened look, nodded, and hurried to fetch water from the stream. Bathing was difficult in this cold and had to be accomplished in their tent for safety sake. John cracked a hole in the river, hauled the water, dumped it into a large cauldron, built up the fire around it, and once it was heated he very carefully used a pulley system Sherlock had rigged to tip it into a barrel which he then dragged into their tent on a child’s toy wagon. Because the process was so difficult they both used the same bath water instead of running a fresh one.

Sherlock stepped into the tent and John lifted him and eased him into the barrel. He was quickly washed down and then lifted back out. John used the wagon – with rocks under the wheels – to climb in and back out again after scrubbing himself quite well. He had learned to be thorough after Sherlock had threatened to cane him if he were otherwise.

John dried himself quickly and joined Sherlock on the bedroll once he was called over. Sherlock motioned for John to climb under and he did so, their naked bodies pressing close in the small bedroll. Sherlock was hard and ready, one hand eagerly exploring his slaves body.

“Whom do you belong to?” Sherlock purred.

“You, sire,” John replied immediately, his face suffused with loathing.

“You need to learn this lesson completely. I have all power over you. If I tell you not to eat you will refrain until you die from it. If I tell you not to sleep you will refrain until you drop. If I tell you not to drink than you will refrain until you are more withered than those corpses. Do you understand me?”

“Yes sire.”

“I hold all dominion over you; life and death.”

“Yes sire.”

“I’m going to give you an order now, and you _will_ obey it.”

“Yes sire.”

“You will refrain…” Sherlock leaned forward and ran his tongue from John’s shoulder up to his ear and leaned in to whisper his command while the man trembled in fear for his life, “From pleasuring yourself until I allow it once more.”

John jerked back, blinking at him in confusion.

“This is, of course,” Sherlock continued with a smirk, “In addition to your rule not to involve yourself with others. Your pleasure comes from me alone, or you will have none. Do you understand?”

“Yes sire.”

Sherlock smirked and kissed his slave hungrily. He ordered John to touch him until he came and pressed his backside against the man’s front. He ground his arse back against John, but got little response from him other than the firm strokes of his hand and a bit of clearly unintentional arousal as he attempted to bring Sherlock off as quickly as possible. It was Sherlock’s dirty little secret that he wished to bottom, but if anyone ever found out he would be a laughingstock. It was all well and good if he were with someone of noble rank, but to bottom to a slave? Sherlock doubted he would ever find a noble who could stimulate him intellectually, sexually, _and_ stand his company for more than an hour. Instead he topped his slaves unless the urge to bottom was too great – at which point he did this with the excuse it was an easier angle to wank someone at. With his backside grinding into John’s lap he could easily imagine he was about to be penetrated. It was the most erotic fantasy he had.

Sherlock came with a grunt and a moan of relief and John cleaned them up. Sherlock would have liked to snooze after such an intense climax, but he had a plan to start so he ordered them up, dressed, and sent John to get firewood.

He hadn’t lied when he said he had done studies of the brain, but he had left out that a good portion of that had been responses to stimuli. He knew how to get a slave to be utterly devoted and attracted to him despite himself. It was simple: After a healthy dose of fear to garner their respect he would limit their pleasures (all kinds of pleasure) to being received only in his presence and by him. Food, especially sweets, drink, sleep, and sexual release would all be by his hand alone. Eventually the slave would associate him with pleasure and seek him out for it instead of the other way around. He had only done so twice, but it had been most effective until the slaves in question had met their end. The first had escaped after leaving him a tearful note saying he couldn’t stand not to be loved in return and was going to find his family again. The other had been the last one to commit suicide, but had left no note to explain him; that had bothered Sherlock immensely as he had no idea where he’d gone wrong or if the defect were with the slave in the first place.

Let the training begin.

Sure enough, the very idea that he wasn’t allowed to touch himself made him preoccupied with the idea. When he went to gather firewood Sherlock followed him discreetly and the second he started to remove his trousers Sherlock popped out from behind a tree with a random demand.

“Did they pack mushrooms? I’m in the mood for them.”

“I’ll… ah… find some, then,” John stammered, trying to carefully hide his disheveled clothing.

“In the middle of winter? It’s unlikely you’ll find any that aren’t ruined by the frost. Don’t bother, I’ll just have to go without.”

Sherlock pretended to wander back towards camp, but circled around again. John had given up that attempt and started chopping wood instead. Once he was finished and had piled it onto their little wagon, however, he stopped and glanced around surreptitiously. Having determined he was alone, John leaned against a tree and once more started to pull out his cock.

“John!” Sherlock called without putting himself in sight, “Where’s that blasted firewood?”

“Coming sire!” John called.

_Not on my watch, you aren’t._

Sherlock had never required much sleep; so going without that night was simple. He sat up and watched John sleep, admiring his new toys body in this relaxed state. The moment he became erect and began to thrash a bit in sleep Sherlock woke him and asked for a drink of water. So it continued all night long until John woke haggard and frustrated.

This pattern continued for several more days, though Sherlock did eventually have to sleep, before Sherlock got bored of his experiment and wanted to go home. That’s when it hit him; the malaise, he called it. They got to the castle and Sherlock collapsed onto his couch and was quite unable to move again for several days. He had to trust to John to keep his word, but he doubted the fellow had time based on how much he hovered and fussed over him. The man kept to their established routine, carrying Sherlock places when he refused to move to them. Of course, he gave up on carting him to the lab when Sherlock’s response was to stretch out on the bench and refuse to move from there either.

It was during Sherlock’s bath a few days later that John voiced his concerns.

“Is this the ‘ailment’ you say you have?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock grunted a reply.

“It’s a bit of the doldrums, then?”

Sherlock decided not to respond this time; he rather thought the healer was playing his catharsis down a great deal.

“Well,” John started, “What can I do to help? Is there nothing that alleviates your malady? Getting out and taking some sun? A horseback ride?”

Sherlock continued not to reply and John continued to guess.

“What about… some special food you like? I could have the kitchen prepare it… It’s just that I was raised to be a healer from the time I could walk. I hate seeing someone like this. You’re barely eating and sometimes I can’t tell if you’re sleeping or just so miserable you can’t lift your eyelids, but you’re like that an awful lot.”

“Mmm.”

“Is there a friend I can call? Someone who cheers you up?”

“I haven’t got friends. I’ve just got you.”

John gave him a pitying look and Sherlock was oddly grateful for it.

“What about…” John hesitated for a moment, then leaned forward and brushed his lips to Sherlock’s quite shyly.  

It went straight to Sherlock’s cock and he snatched at the man’s face to snog him properly. They kissed rather heatedly for a moment before John reached hesitantly into the tub to stroke his erection. Sherlock broke the kiss to pant hungrily, moaning and squirming uncomfortably in the tiny wooden tub.

“Lift me up,” Sherlock breathed, and John scooped him up, deposited him on the nearby drying blanket, wrapped him up in it to keep him warm, and carried him straight over to the bed.

Sherlock was amazed. He’d never seen someone respond so quickly to his training before. He tugged at John for more kisses and John leaned over him and rained them down on his face, neck, and shoulders. Sherlock moaned appreciatively and urged him lower. John hesitantly kissed down his chest and belly, but worked his way back up again instead of going where Sherlock _really_ wanted him.

Sherlock decided to egg him on by giving him a bit of pleasure, but when he reached between the slave’s thighs he found him completely uninterested. A bit of effort on Sherlock’s part produced no results. Sherlock pushed him away angrily.

“You’ve been touching yourself!” He accused, his own arousal vanishing.

“What? No! I haven’t had a chance to,” John insisted.

“You’re flaccid and unresponsive!”

John winced, “I did try to warn you, my lord, I’m just not interested in men. I mean no offense, I just… can’t.”

“Get out of my sight!” Sherlock snarled, shoving at John’s shoulders.

“You’re damp and undressed…”

“I’ll care for myself! I’d rather that than a man who would grope me with no interest in mind!”

“It didn’t stop you wanting me to touch you before,” John stammered, “When I specifically told you I didn’t want…”

“I ordered you _out!_ ”

John bolted and Sherlock lay back in the bed, completely disgusted with himself. Why did he care if he aroused his slave? It had never mattered before. The only difference he knew of was this slave was educated and behaved as a freeman. They’d had more than one rational discussion and quite a few companionable silences. Giving up this train of thought when he grew chilly; Sherlock crawled beneath the covers to sleep.

XXX

John was confused. Confused and out of a place to sleep for the night. And bathe. He had only been doing what he thought Sherlock wanted; the man was, after all, trying to ‘train’ him to be more appreciative of Sherlock’s advances. He hadn’t realized, however, that Sherlock was trying to turn him _gay_. Was that even possible?

 _I suppose from a medical standpoint a body is a body and hormones are hormones,_ John thought as he headed down to the kitchens to find a warm hearth to sleep on.

He managed to find a spot to curl up in but couldn’t seem to relax. He tossed and turned on the blanket he’d scrounged up, not sure why sleep was eluding him. Sure, he wasn’t very comfortable, but that had never impeded him before. After a while John’s frustrated brain provided him with the reason for his reluctance; he hadn’t bathed yet. He had only been a couple of weeks in Sherlock’s presence and already he was so used to his rules that they had become habit enough to keep him up at night! Growling in frustration, John heated a pan of water over the stove and found a solitary corner to give himself a whore’s bath in. There. His important parts were clean. Sherlock could flog himself if that wasn’t good enough.

Ignoring the erection that had popped up from the warm water and the caress of his soap covered hands, John curled back up and worried about his careless master. He had seen Sherlock show unbelievable brilliance, unbearable cruelty, and unprompted kindness in turn. The man was an enigma – his enigma.

The next morning he showed up with his tail between his legs despite the fact he’d done nothing wrong. Sherlock was already dressed and puttering about his lab. The prince looked up at John in surprise when he stepped into the room, as though he had thought the man had run away in the night.

“John,” Sherlock stated, saying his name with such surprising softness that John had crossed the room to his side before he’d realized it. They studied each other a moment, John looking down at Sherlock for a change, and then the man had nodded to a flask, “Sprinkle that on a clean spot on your inner arm and tell me if any marks appear in the next two hours.”

 

 


	3. vincentmeoblinn | The Mage's Slave Ch 3

When Sir Lestrade and his fellow knights showed up a few weeks later to ask Sherlock to help with a case John was obviously surprised. Apparently there was suspicion of treason within a specific camp. Sherlock had John pack them up for travel once more, slipping his rod into a leather loop on his belt the way the knights wore their swords.

“Is that your focus?”

“Yes.”

“It’s lovely, I’ve never seen one like it. Not that I’ve seen many, of course, but still it’s quite unique.”

Sherlock blushed, as he often did when John complimented him, and pulled his short rod from the holder. It was large enough to grip in his fist, with gems on each end- one a handful of mystical opals the other a dark citrine. Both ends were about the size of a circular chicken egg.

“Small, my master called it,” Sherlock chuckled.

“Size isn’t everything?” John offered with a shrug, “Did you have a choice or something? How does that sort of thing work?”

“A Mage goes on a journey – mine was with an armed guard, of course – and collects the materials that their Magic calls to. I journeyed into a cave for the metal, it was raw and quite heavy, the citrine was found in a bog that I waded into like a fool, the opals bought off a strange wandering merchant who was probably a Mage himself. There was only so much metal, and you aren’t allowed to add to it. After that I had to take it to a specially trained blacksmith and have it forged into a focus. Measuring my hand and the gems chose the shape; he made it textured where my hand would hold it for grip, and created the lace-like pattern on both hilts behind the settings to make it more fancy for me since I’m a prince. My master scolded the blacksmith for making it fancy. I was just happy to feel it in my hand once it was complete. It doesn’t matter what it looks like, just what it feels like.”

“What does it feel like?” John asked, a look of wonder on his face.

“It feels like a part of me. Like I’m holding my heart in my hand.”

“That’s… beautiful,” John breathed and Sherlock blushed again, “And it helps you perform your spells?”

“Not exactly. It helps me focus them; Magic is wild and alive, it requires a vessel. Like ink needs a pen to contain it and guide it into the curves and dots that compose the written language. Otherwise all you end up with is a black stain on the parchment.”

“You should write poetry,” John decided with a smile, adding an extra pair of leggings to Sherlock’s bag.

“I write music and spells, they’re all the same,” Sherlock shrugged indifferently.

“You _write_ spells?” John asked in amazement.

“In a way. The words don’t matter: it’s the intent. Each person has access to a specific vein of Magical energy and they access it by using their voice. Some sing, some chant, I use Latin words and order it around.”

John laughed, “That sounds like you.”

“I have access to both Earth and Transmutation Magic,” Sherlock continued, “I can change the composition of things – transform one into another within reason – and I can sense the chemical composition of earth-based objects around me.”

“Stones and dirt?” John asked, looking confused.

“Yes. It’s invaluable to Lestrade as I can use it to track someone better than a bloodhound. One look at a shoe and I can tell you where it’s been.”

“Impressive,” John agreed.

“Some Mages have more than one aspect. Earth and Transmutation go together. So do Water and Weather, Air and Transportation, Fire and Destruction...”

“Life and death,” John interrupted, “Magic was forbidden in my country, but it’s always amazed me. My family had Healing Magic in it, but with King James the First outlawing it...”

“Perhaps we should see if you could access it. Have you ever held a gemstone before?”

“My family passed a focus down, it had gemstones in it. It was taken when I was captured. Do you think I could get it back?”

Alarms went off in Sherlock’s head and he narrowed his eyes at John suspiciously.

“Healing Magic is part of Life and Death Magic: the traditional focus is a dagger with sapphires and amethyst in the hilt. It would be a waste to have your focus destroyed or mislaid, however you have not shown yourself worthy of holding a weapon. You have given me no reason to trust you. We could try your hand at Magic, but chances are you can’t use an inherited focus effectively. Passing down family foci is charming, but it is rarely the most useful method of practicing Magic.”

“It’s dangerous,” John confessed, catching Sherlock’s arm and drawing his eyes to his own, “One prick, no matter how harmless, will kill a man.”

“Then it’s a true foci,” Sherlock replied, clearing his throat awkwardly as the heat from John’s hand affected his thinking. He pulled himself free and turned to check their bags. John had packed perfectly, of course, but it gave him something to do.

“Then I can have it back? I could use it to _protect_ you,” John insisted.

“You would protect the man who enslaves and rapes you?” Sherlock asked, snorting in amusement.

“You haven’t raped me yet, molested me, yes, but not raped me.”

“You seem to think I won’t.”

“No, I realize you will eventually. I’m… resigned to it. Not happy, no, but resigned to it.”

“You’ll run away once I give you that dagger back,” Sherlock decided.

“What? No!”

“Yes. You can’t trick me, John. I’m no fool and I can read you like a book. I’ll find your dagger, and as a reward you may use it to attempt Magic, but you will not keep it on your person.”

John bowed his head in acceptance, the disappointment clear in his eyes.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

The dagger was lovely, but it was actually more of a dirk and sharpened to razor perfection. The gemstones were in the hilt where the hand would cover them instead of being visible like Sherlock’s. There were just two small stones, one on each side of the grip.

“You could shave with that thing,” Gregson observed after fetching it out of the weapons room.

“Mmm, only if you wished a swift death. This is a Mages focus, one used for Life and Death Magic. Being cut by this blade without having healing Magic or the Mages blessing would mean instant death,” Sherlock explained, then re-sheathed it in its old wooden scabbard and placed it at his hip; “He made no protest when it was taken from him?”

“He pitched a fit, screamed about how it was cursed and he had to keep it on his person. Said to chain it up and give it back to him if we had to, but not to take it from him. He got flogged for his efforts. It’s really that dangerous?”

“Quite.” Sherlock nodded.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

John sat on the back of Sherlock’s horse on a double saddle, their bodies pressed closely together. It was frigid now, far too cold for anyone to be out for the night without proper blankets, a fire, and another warm body. They had packed one tent and intended to crowd in tightly; that was what the soldiers were doing in the camp.

“Your king just doesn’t want to end this war, does he?” Lestrade asked John.

“He’s not my king anymore: King Siger is,” John responded.

“You switch loyalties so easily?” Lestrade asked, “Sire, you’d better watch that one. He’ll turn on you, too.”

“I’m well aware of that, thank you,” Sherlock replied, deciding that John wasn’t above sucking up to get his focus back.

“I have no reason to stay loyal to a man who thinks his kingdom is made up of land instead of people. He sends us out here to die – or be enslaved – in the hope his kingdom will expand while instead it shrinks all around him.”

Sherlock turned in his saddle and gave John a startled look: “I’ve never heard of a kingdom described that way before.”

“Do you think it’s inaccurate?” John asked, just barely keeping the challenge from his voice.

John’s eyes had yet to leave the dirk on Sherlock’s hip since they had first mounted, and the longing in his eyes was almost painful. His stare was making Lestrade uncomfortable since he didn’t realize the man was yearning for his focus and not simply staring at a knife. It confirmed for Sherlock that John in fact _did_ have Magic, and that he was well aware of it. Sherlock reigned in the horse since his shifting had made it canter off course. Sherlock reached back and lifted John’s chin so he was forced to meet his eyes.

“I don’t think a kingdom is made up of land,” Sherlock stated firmly, “Do I need to hide the dirk?”

“Yes,” John replied with a flush of shame.

Sherlock unlashed the dagger from his hip and tucked it into a saddlebag. John let out a sigh of relief. That settled it for Sherlock, he had more than lucked out with the Healer; the man was wasted as a slave. He just didn’t know how far he could trust him now he had his focus in sight. The man had clearly resigned himself to slavery because he had no intention of leaving the kingdom without this precious heirloom. Sherlock also doubted that he was as naïve about Magic as he let on. With the focus nearby and Magic thrumming just under his skin… at the very least he’d have used it accidentally in the past. He probably healed himself instantly without even needing aid of foci.

They stopped at the camp close to the front of the war, which was suspected of housing a spy. The camp had been moved back to keep it from immediate danger so that Sherlock and Lestrade could investigate the accusations of treason. John pitched the camp with Anderson and Donovan while Sherlock and Lestrade went to check in with the Major.

“Major Hope?” Sherlock asked, nodding at the sallow faced Major (mid sixties, family bought his rank, little battle experience, unknown but certainly fatal chronic illness, guilty conscience, frightened) as he bowed before him, “You look unwell, major.”

“Headaches,” Major Jefferson Hope explained, “They plague me constantly, but I’ve grown used to them. I’ve found no spy since word was sent that we were suspect of having one. My men are all loyal to the king.”

“Have you seen no healer?” Sherlock asked.

“I…” Hope started, but Lestrade cut him off.

“Sire, we’re here about a spy.”

“Yes, Lestrade, thank you. However, I think it prudent if the Major is operating at top efficiency. My slave is a Healer of some power, perhaps you would allow him to take a look at you?”

“ _Sire_ ,” Lestrade started, but Sherlock cut him off with a wave.

A private was sent out to fetch John from the camp with orders to have him bring his dirk with him. John walked in clutching it tightly in both hands and looking apprehensive.

“There’s no way for us to bathe while we’re here,” John announced, planting a rather stupid look on his face.

“Yes, I’m aware, just keep your personal areas clean. A pan full of heated water should do the trick. There’s one packed in my bag. Now if you’re done pretending to be _ordinary_ , I’d like you to use your Healing ability on Major Hope, here.”

John blinked and then slipped the dirk into his belt.

“You misunderstand, John,” Sherlock sighed, “I want you to use your _Healing_ _Magic_ on him.”

John winced guiltily and pulled the dirk back out. He gripped it in both hands again and stared at Major Hope for some time with an unfocused look on his face.

“Is he alright?” Major Hope asked in concern.

“He’ll be fine,” Sherlock stated firmly.

“There’s a bulge inside his brain, a weakened blood vessel that’s filling up with blood. If it ruptures he’ll die,” John explained.

Hope’s face paled and Lestrade swore beside Sherlock.

“Can you treat him?” Sherlock asked.

“I can relieve some of the pressure and strengthen it, but he’ll need repeat treatments, probably every ten years or so. I know of nothing that would actually cure him,” John replied.

“Do so,” Sherlock ordered.

John stepped forward and drew the dirk, his face hot with embarrassment.

“This is going to look a bit barbaric. I’ve never done it with someone watching before, have you ever seen Healing Magic?” John seemed to be asking the tent at large.

“It’s quite rare,” Sherlock replied, _though not as rare as Death Magic. What other secrets do you hold, my dear John?_ Sherlock thought.

John nodded and drew the dirk across the inside of his hand, drawing a sympathetic hiss from Hope and Lestrade, though he did not so much as frown. Sherlock watched as the gemstones flashed light between his closed fingers. John held his hand out and placed it on the side of Hope’s head, closing his eyes and starting to hum softly to himself. After a moment his voice rose in a slow, soft song.

[When in the springtime of the year](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CSGaTEdWjbs)  
When the trees are crowned with leaves  
When the ash and oak, and the birch and yew  
Are dressed in ribbons fair.

It was a celtic song, one he’d often heard them sing as they wove flowers for the spring festival, and Hope looked a bit insulted. He might have pulled away had Sherlock not snapped at him to remain still. Finally John drew his hand away, and when he did both hand and Hope’s head were completely clean of blood. There was no sign of injury on John’s hand. Sherlock immediately confiscated the dirk.

“My gods, the pain…” Hope breathed, his hand fluttering to his temple as color returned to his face.

“You’ll need to see me again when the pain returns,” John replied, “And don’t put it off. I mean it. Brains are complicated to heal and your brain is like a trap ready to spring.”

Hope winced.

“Something about what he said bothers you, Major Hope?” Sherlock asked.

“I… I…” Hope stammered.

“You would, perhaps, like to tell us about the trap we’ve just walked into?” Sherlock asked.

“Forgive me, your highness,” Hope pleaded, “He promised me relief.”

“I imagine he did, and saw you easily malleable. Perhaps we may survive this yet and you will enjoy your newfound health. When and what?”

“Nightfall. They’ll surround the camp and hold the entire thing – yourself especially – hostage. They’ll demand ransom from your father the King to free you all and the longer he takes the more they’ll kill.”

“Nightfall’s in a few minutes!” Lestrade raged, grabbing Sherlock’s arm and dragging him from the Major’s tent.

Sherlock glanced back to see John following closely behind them as they returned to the tent. Donovan and Anderson were building up the fire as Lestrade reached them.

“Abandon camp, grab the horses. No time to loose! The prince’s life is in danger.”

“A bit late, I would think,” Sherlock intoned and John looked up to see the sun just dropping over the hill.

“We can still make it out of here,” Lestrade insisted.

“And abandon all these people?” John argued, “They’ll be slaughtered when his majesty isn’t found among them!”

“John’s right, though do stop speaking out of turn,” Sherlock frowned, and John lowered his eyes respectfully.

“No arguments. I’m responsible for _your_ safety first, not the entire camps,” Lestrade snapped.

“You might have thought of that before discussing this so publicly,” Sherlock sighed.

Lestrade looked around and realized several of the men around them were watching them in concern.

“Fucking hell… Listen up! Arm yourselves! We’re about to be attacked!”

Lestrade hurried off to plan their defense and Sherlock ducked into the tent with John tugged behind him.

“On your knees, loosen your trousers and bare your arse. Keep your front covered as much as possible.”

“Now? You want to bugger me _now_ ,” John asked in shock.

“Can you think of a better time? Do it.”

John obeyed, his face pale and his hands trembling. Sherlock pulled the dirk from his hip and shoved it down the front of John’s trousers before ordering him to bend forward. Sherlock then pulled out his own focus and covered it with oil from a container in his pocket.

“What are you planning on doing with that?” John asked, his voice cracking.

“As little as possible, I hope, but I’m afraid this _isn’t_ going to be comfortable for you. Do try to pretend you’re enjoying it, our lives and foci depend on it.”

Sherlock slipped two oiled fingers into John, causing a hiss of discomfort from the man who instinctively pulled away.

“Hold _still_. This isn’t how I wanted to introduce you to anal sex either, but we have little choice. I’ll use the side with the opals, it’s smoother despite the multiple stones.”

“Have you done this before?”

“With my focus? Don’t be obscene.”

Shouting arose from outside the tent, the clash of swords, the twang of bows, and the sounds of men dying. Sherlock managed three fingers and then held John as open as possible with two of them while sliding his focus in. John was bravely silent.

“Remember, sound and look as though you’re enjoying this, and make sure your dirk looks like an erection.”

“Mmm,” John whimpered out an affirmative, reaching down and cupping his hand over his clothed focus.

The tent flap was thrown open and a strange man with two armed guards entered.

John moaned and wriggled slightly as though aroused and Sherlock’s cock jumped traitorously. Sherlock pushed the focus in a bit further and then glanced up at the men as though this were all perfectly ordinary.

“May I help you gentlemen?” Sherlock asked.

“What the hell are you doing to that slave?” The leader (middle aged, homosexual, crack shot with both bow and crossbow, short temper but good humored, had quail for dinner) gave Sherlock a look somewhere between curious and horrified.

“Buggering him with the royal dildo. I’d offer you a go since you’re clearly homosexual as well- cheers by the way- but I don’t share,” Sherlock stated.

John leaned forward and buried his face in his arms. He shook and bucked a bit. It might have looked like he was approaching orgasm to the men in the tent, but Sherlock could tell he was withholding laughter.

“Turn over your weapons,” The stranger snapped, trying to sound firm when he was close to laughter.

“Oh, has the camp been overrun? You’re one of King James’ men, aren’t you?”

“Colonel Moran. Your _weapons_ ,” He made a better attempt at firmness this time.

“Very well. I think there’s a knife of some sort at my hip and I’m sure there’s a sword lashed to my horse. I don’t usually get my hands dirty… well… on the battle field,” Sherlock smirked and pressed a kiss to John’s arsecheek.

One of the guards stepped forward and took the belt off from Sherlock’s hip, taking his dagger with it.

“Hunting knife. Dull,” The guard reported, a smirk on his face at Sherlock’s antics.

“Will that be all, colonel?” Sherlock asked, “I’m a bit busy, as you can see.”

“You’re being held hostage, does that not concern you?” Moran asked with narrowed eyes.

“Policy rarely concerns me. I’m the third son. I’m only here to bugger the troops, ride my horse, and have a bit of fun. I’m sure you can get on with this without disturbing at least two of those activities, don’t you?”

Moran barked out a laugh and shook his head, “You’re one fucked up prince, kid. Fine. You make yourself comfy and we’ll just wait for your daddy to pay up.”

“Ta!” Sherlock called, and moved the focus a bit. John yelped and then moaned enthusiastically.

Moran left the tent, chuckling a bit, and Donovan and Lestrade rejoined Sherlock.

Lestrade gave him a horrified look and Sherlock shook his head to encourage him to remain silent.

“Okay, John?” Sherlock whispered.

“I’ve been better,” John whispered back.

“You aren’t bleeding at all, if that helps.”

“Oh, yeah, much, thanks,” John replied sarcastically.

It took a good few hours for them to secure the camp and then the waiting began. Sherlock eased the focus from John and washed it before hiding it inside his own shirt. Lestrade and Donovan all gave John sympathetic looks as he stretched out on his side in clear discomfort. Sherlock had a lower private fetch water from the stream and heat it in a pan while John slipped out to relieve himself.

“You make him bathe daily?” Lestrade asked in amusement.

“We both do,” Sherlock replied.

“It’s unnecessary.”

“It’s about control. You saw how anxious he got.”

“Yeah, right, you haven’t fucked him yet?”

“No, not yet. I’m training him. He’s almost ready.”

“You’re cruel,” Lestrade chuckled.

John slipped back into the tent having fetched the pan himself and stripped his clothes off before squatting over it, moistening the soap, and then soaping up his genitals. Sherlock watched, dry mouthed and rock hard, as the man’s cock instantly firmed while he washed himself. John was probably ready for the next phase of his ‘training’, but Sherlock wanted to be in private for that. John patted himself dry with a corner of his blanket and then redressed.

“I’ll get yours ready,” John nodded to Sherlock before heading out.

“Fucking hell, he’s got a body on him,” Lestrade commented.

“Mmm,” Sherlock agreed, not trusting his voice.

“Decent sized cock for such a short fellow.”

“Rather, yes,” Sherlock agreed at a whisper as his body clenched at the thought.

Lestrade sighed at the distracted look on Sherlock’s face and leaned closer to him.

“I’ve got a responsibility to keep you safe, Sherlock,” Lestrade whispered, dropping the title, “We have to get you out of here…”

“My duty is to my kingdom, Lestrade.”

“Bullshit, you’re here because you’re bored. I know you better than that, ya bastard,” Lestrade’s smile softened the statement and Sherlock smiled softly, “We’ll slip out between the guards they’ve posted. I’ll get the boys to help.”

“Speaking of the boys, where’s Anderson?” Sherlock asked as John slipped in and put the pan down for Sherlock.

“Dead,” Lestrade winced, glancing at the corner of their tent where Donovan was sagged down on the floor as though fatigued, “And Donovan’s useless for it. You know they were together. She’s practically catatonic. Just walking around following orders.”

Sherlock nodded and John began undressing him. Lestrade made a face and said he’d wait outside. He tugged Donovan along with him. Sherlock was glad for it; he wanted time alone with John.

“How experienced are you with Necromancy?” He whispered to the man as he squatted down for his birdbath.

“Only once on a neighbors dead pet, though you can imagine that went badly. Father beat me for it. I was telling the truth earlier; Magic isn’t used much in my kingdom. I used my powers when it was a desperate situation and I thought I wouldn’t get caught. That’s it. I know the theory, but not much else.”

“There are many dead soldiers outside now. When everyone is asleep I want you to slip out, raise an army of the dead, and slaughter my enemies. Will you do that?”

John raised his head from his work between Sherlock’s thighs; probably more aware of how serious Sherlock was based on the fact he was not aroused for a change.

“I’m not sure I can, and even so most of the dead are your own men,” John whispered, his face a mask of horror.

“They can only die once, it’s the living I’m concerned for.”

Sherlock saw the moment when John’s respect for him shifted, and was surprised when he then pressed a firm kiss to Sherlock’s lips before going back to his washing. Sherlock’s cock twitched, but they were both too somber to respond otherwise. Instead he asked as to John’s discomfort and received the reply that his body had already healed it. Once Sherlock was dressed Donovan and Lestrade were called back in and they curled up in their blankets to get some sleep before dawn and the horrors that might await them when the sun rose. Once the breathing slowed around them, which took some time as Donovan wept in Lestrade’s arms, John carefully slipped out of Sherlock’s arms and dressed them both.

They both slipped to the small pile near the side of camp where the bodies had been grouped. The ground was too hard to be dug up so they would be burned at dawn. John knelt by each and pricked his fingers, dropping blood into their mouths before stabbing them firmly through the heart. One after another he did this with, dragging them off to the side once he’d finished his gruesome ritual.

Finally he had all two-dozen dead men lined up on the ground with fresh wounds and gaping jaws. John glanced at Sherlock apprehensively.

“You can’t stop me once I start or I’ll die.”

“I’m aware.”

“You… you’ll protect me? I’ll be defenseless.”

“You’ll be safe,” Sherlock insisted, removing his own focus from the folds of his clothes.

“If this doesn’t work-”

“It will.”

“If it does, I’ll be completely drained.”

“I. Will. Protect. You.” Sherlock stated firmly, eyes making every effort to penetrate John’s thick skull.

John nodded and started humming, his voice wailing and sad this time. When he started singing the words were mournful and dark.

[ _I'm bleeding out_ ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hl-fALgJyaM) __  
If the last thing that I do,  
Is bring it down,  
I’ll bleed out for you. 

Finally John raised his dirk, paused the barest moment as his hand trembled, adjusted his grip, and then plunged the blade into his own heart.

Sherlock thought the scream came from himself, but it had actually come from John. It sounded like the voices of all two-dozen men screaming in agony at once. John’s body was glowing faintly, an aura of deep purple surrounding him. Sherlock heard a rustle of cloth and clink of armor and tore his eyes away from John to see the dead men had risen. They turned as one and ran with drawn weapons towards the stirring enemy camp.

Sherlock stood there, amazed and more than a bit alarmed, and then ordered up walls of dirt around the camp to prevent his own men getting involved. The walls were thin and would crumble if beaten upon, but Sherlock thought that they in combination with the horrible shrieks filling the valley would keep anyone from attempting to get to the enemy camp out of sheer curiosity. John, meanwhile, was standing steadily in place, dirk stabbed into his heart, singing a song that seemed to be agony personified.

Hours passed. The men from the camp shouted retreat, but their more distant screams told Sherlock they had been pursued. Eventually the screams stopped and John gently slid the blade from his chest. He sagged towards the ground and Sherlock quickly caught him, hefting him into his arms. The wall of dirt came down and Sherlock half-dragged-half-carried John back to their tent. By the time he returned the entire hill had fallen silent, though not a soul was asleep.

“The enemy’s camp is silent,” Lestrade whispered as they slipped into the tent, “No one dares approach it, but I climbed a tree and I have seen men I _know for a fact were dead_ in places they don’t belong. Walking.”

Donovan’s head shot up.

“How peculiar,” Sherlock replied noncommittally.

“The men are terrified, Sherlock,” Lestrade hissed, “What the hell have you done?”

“Relax, Sir Lestrade, your fears are ill placed. We’re perfectly safe.”

“We’re surrounded by an army of the undead!” Lestrade argued softly.

“Have they harmed anyone besides our enemies?”

“No, but I’m beginning to wonder if you know who our enemy _is_.”

“King James’ men, of course.”

Lestrade looked at him as though he was unsure but Sherlock merely helped John lay down on his bedroll.

“Sir?” Donovan whispered, “The men who rose from the dead… Sir Anderson…”

“Don’t you go near them!” Lestrade whispered back.

“But sir!” She protested loudly.

“Quiet!” Lestrade hissed, “We don’t want to provoke them.”

Donovan looked rebellious and then stood and fled the tent, Lestrade hot on her heals. It didn’t take long for her screams to reach John and Sherlock from where they crouched in the tent.

Sherlock stood and walked through the enemy camp, a few brave souls following him. Dead men lay everywhere, apparently slain by other dead men. Finally Sherlock found what he was looking for.

“Bring him back!” She pleaded, but Sherlock only shook his head. The circle of dead around the entire camp was utterly silent.

“Bring him back!” Donovan screamed lifting her lost lover and carrying him towards Sherlock. She showed remarkable strength in carrying a dead man in armor so far, but it ended when she reached him. Anderson hit the ground with a clank, his body filled with arrows and wounds that had _not_ been there when he’d been laid to rest the night before. Donovan grabbed Sherlock by his shirt and shook him violently.

“Sally! Don’t!” Lestrade called, stepping forward and pulling her off of him.

“Bring him back! I know you can! I know it was you!” Sally screamed.

“I’m sorry,” John replied miserably from behind Sherlock, “I can’t.”

Sherlock gaped at John; barely able to stand, he was leaning against a horse that he had apparently used as a crutch to follow the sound of Donovan’s screams.

“You can! You have to! I love him! I _need_ him!” Sally pleaded.

“It isn’t _real_ life, Sir Donovan,” John pleaded with her, “It’s just an illusion of life.”

“I don’t care! Bring him back!” Donovan wrenched away from Lestrade and pulled out her sword, “Do it or I’ll run you through!”

“I’d rather you did than give you a corpse to wed,” John whispered, tears starting down his cheeks.

Lestrade restrained Sally, Sherlock pulling out his focus and stepped in between them so John couldn’t be threatened again.

“You monster! Freak! Necromancer! The king will have you killed for this!” Sally shrieked.

“He saved all our lives, Sally,” Lestrade pleaded, “Anderson was already gone. John didn’t bring him back, it was just… armor.”

“It’s the truth, Sir Donovan, and I am sorry!” John pleaded, on his knees and holding trembling hands in a clasp, “I meant no disrespect or harm. I hate that part of my abilities. I hate it so much…”

John broke down sobbing and Sherlock gave his focus a shake and ordered the ground to swallow Anderson up.

“NOOOOOOO!” Donovan screamed, throwing herself down on his grave and sobbing brokenly.

“Lestrade gather the rest of our fallen friends and foe. I won’t leave them here to rot. One mound. Death is the eternal equalizer so I will bury them together, here on this spot.”

Sherlock sat himself down on a nearby rock and pulled the sobbing, trembling Necromancer against him. John buried his face in Sherlock’s lap and wept bitterly. Sherlock petted his hair and ignored the fearful looks of the men around him. Necromancy was indeed a feared art, but it was part of Healing Magic- power over Life and Death. Not complete power, no, that would be too fearsome, and it had its price. John was pale and drawn from the pain he had suffered as he felt the mortal wounds of all the men he held ensnared from the early morning hours until sunrise. His body would recover well, but such pain took a toll on the mind. It would take several days, perhaps even weeks to heal completely.

Sally was another sort altogether as she weakly dug at the hard-packed frozen soil, breaking fingernails and drawing blood in an attempt to get back to Anderson. She couldn’t accept his death, not now that she knew he had risen from it once and walked again. It might take years for her to recover from this horrid event.

“You did well, John,” Sherlock soothed, but the man was inconsolable.

Eventually his exhaustion caught up with him and John simply slept, his body so lax that Sherlock checked his pulse more than once. Finally Lestrade reported that the mound of bodies in front of Sherlock was complete. Sherlock had him carry John a few paces away and everyone watched in silent reverence as the ground shifted beneath the macabre scene and the bodies disappeared in a cloud of dust. When the dust settled all that remained was a flat expanse of soil and the lingering scent of death.  
  
  

[CHAPTER FOUR](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/26426.html)


	4. vincentmeoblinn | The Mage's Slave Ch 4

The timing was perfect, though the location was far from it. John was physically, mentally, and emotionally drained; a state that Sherlock would have to be a fool not to take advantage of. So he let the poor man sleep for a good twelve hours while the troops around them packed up to await reassignment now that their CO had been arrested. When John finally awoke Sherlock had water heated, had a servant help John relieve himself, then he stripped him down and washed his body almost reverently. He stroked his hair and pressed kisses to his face and lips the entire time.

When the sponge bath was done a servant came back in and John was bundled up into fresh blankets and propped up with a saddle. Sherlock then had food sent for and spent the time feeding the stew to him while murmuring praises and gently stroking the inside of one leg over the covers. John had gone a very long time without satisfying himself at this point, though Sherlock suspected he might have had a night emission a couple of weeks ago. Now his body was taut as a bowstring, his emotions ragged from what he’d endured. He visibly ached with need and leaned into Sherlock’s every caress.

Once John was fed and given water to drink Sherlock stripped off his clothes, laid John back down, and slipped into the bedroll with him. He climbed between the trembling man’s legs and pressed kisses to his neck as he ran an oil-slicked finger behind his bollocks and gently swirled it around the man’s pucker.

John gasped and his legs twitched a bit, but he could do little more than raise his arms and clasp Sherlock’s shoulders weakly.

“Sh…Sherlock…” John whimpered, his member already leaking onto his stomach.

“Hush,” Sherlock soothed, kissing his closed eyelids and ignoring the loss of title. He liked the sound of his name on John’s lips.

Sherlock took his time preparing John’s body for penetration, worried that he was going to be tender after the stunt with the focus, but the man was healed completely. Sherlock’s slicked up his member, gasping at the sensitivity. He had gotten John to relieve him on occasion, but not nearly as often as he preferred. Neither of them would last long today.

Sherlock lifted John’s thighs, wrapping them around his waist and coaxing the man into hooking them there. Then he slid into John’s tight body slowly, savoring the moment and moaning enthusiastically. John tensed at one point and Sherlock stilled, waiting him out as he gently caressed his hip with one hand and explored the man’s mouth with his tongue. Once John had relaxed again Sherlock pressed in to the hilt and sighed in relief.

“Oh, gods…” John whimpered.

“Mmmm, yes, it’s beautiful isn’t it? Don’t you feel so blissfully full?” Sherlock whispered into his ear before running his tongue across it.

John shuddered and whimpered beneath him and Sherlock couldn’t hold himself back any longer. He pulled out and pressed back in, carefully seeking John’s prostate as he hadn’t done while preparing him. It took a couple of thrusts and then John cried out and his legs clenched around him convulsively.

“Good?”

“Ah!” John replied, apparently too lost in pleasure to speak.

Sherlock wanted to fuck him for ages, but it simply wasn’t possible. They were both hovering on the edges of orgasm. Two more well-placed strokes inside the beautiful man’s body and John was sobbing out his release, his cock pulsing between them, his body clenching around Sherlock and milking his cock as they both groaned in pleasure. Sherlock allowed himself the luxury of a few more quick half-thrusts and then slid out and rolled to the side.

He curled up with John’s shoulder as a pillow, wiping up John’s seed and then pressing a flannel under the man’s cheeks to catch the mess that would inevitably leak out. John barely stirred. He had fallen back into a deep sleep. Sherlock sighed happily and allowed himself to rest as well. Tomorrow they would return to the palace and routine once more. Sherlock would miss the excitement, but he was certainly looking forward to a _proper_ bed to do such strenuous activities in. His knees were aching.

XXX

John woke the next morning feeling crusty and ashamed. He couldn’t believe he’d been done in by such an obvious ploy! Sherlock had seduced him as easily as if he were an uneducated tavern wench! John swallowed down the tears that threatened, knowing they were mostly from the strain of his Magical activities the day before, and tried to rise to start his routine. No good. His body was still weak. He’d have to hope that Sherlock understood despite having gotten what he wanted from John.

When Sherlock stirred a few moments later John couldn’t look him in the eye. He was too disgusted – both with himself and the prince – and wanted to be anywhere but in his bedroll with him. Sherlock apparently sensed this immediately, probably in that strange way he figured everything around him out, and leaned over to stroke John’s hair in a mockery of affection.

“You enjoyed yourself last night,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly, “There’s no shame in that. Sex is enjoyable in any form.”

“I prefer women and I’d really prefer it if you just took what you wanted without involving me in the process,” John replied bitterly, wincing at his own tone when he realized it could well get him flogged.

Luckily, Sherlock was in one of his understanding moods, “You do realize from a medical standpoint that even if I _were_ to entertain your ludicrous proposal there would be times your body reacted simply because that is what bodies _do_.”

“Yes,” John sighed, “But it wouldn’t be so…”

“Passionate?” Sherlock offered.

“Yes,” John admitted miserably, “Yes, alright, I’d like to avoid being _passionate_ with my master and rapist. Is that a crime?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead he scrambled out of the bedroll as though fleeing him, threw on his clothes himself ( _So you can dress yourself!)_ and stomped out of the tent with his boots unlaced. John had a moment of confusion and then realization slowly sank in. Prince Sherlock had expected John to _enjoy_ what he’d done to him! He’d honestly thought John would swoon and say: ‘Oh, so that’s what gay sex is like! All this time I had no idea! Apparently I do like it!’. John wasn’t sure who to feel worse for: himself or the deluded prince.

[CHAPTER FIVE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/26663.html)


	5. vincentmeoblinn | The Mage's Slave Ch 5

Sherlock awoke with John’s naked body wrapped around him from behind like it always was ever since ‘The Scarlet Battle’ and experienced an odd ache in his chest as he ran his fingers through the hairs on his arms. He had never once in his life become attached to someone, yet this was clearly happening to him now. When he tried to analyze why he saw no obvious reasons. Certainly John was more patient with him than previous slaves had been, but that might be equated to Sherlock’s increasing experience with handling slaves. He complimented Sherlock often, which was also something he had no experience with and made him blush, but why should that make him anything but fond of the slave? Why so _violently_ attracted? So easily swayed by the man’s moods?

Sherlock rolled over and scooted down, pressing his face into the slave’s chest and breathing in his scent. Perhaps it was chemical. He had held himself back in having any type of sex with the man since their time in the tent two weeks ago because of his obvious horror at what they’d done. Perhaps the chemicals in his brain were overcompensating in order to encourage him to relieve his desires properly instead of just tossing off while the man bathed him. That was a logical explanation. It had been over a week since Sherlock had come last, and longer for John.

Sherlock ran his hand down John’s back and cupped his muscular buttocks, squeezing it lightly. John moaned a bit in his sleep and pressed forward, his cock beginning to firm as his body sought out its long denied pleasure. Sherlock was instantly breathless. Between his unaccountable attraction and the self-denial he was practically whimpering. That urge hit him again, to be filled by the man, and he had thrown a leg over him and began rubbing John’s cock between the cleft of his arse before his brain could tell him to stop.

John didn’t help matters by groaning and grasping his hips. He started pumping his hips forward and Sherlock was left staring at the play of his muscles in open shock. He’d never seen another man thrust against his body before; he’d only ever taken his slaves, _usually_ while they were on their knees so he didn’t have to look at their _usually_ flaccid dicks. John was a spectacle to see; his cock thick, long, and just a bit curved upwards as it vanished and reappeared behind Sherlock’s bollocks.

_It couldn’t hurt to do this, could it? He isn’t technically penetrating me. It isn’t degrading. Afterwards I could have him press his thighs together and let me do the same._

The very idea made Sherlock’s cock twitch, but then John shifted forward in his sleep and Sherlock’s head fell back with a gasp. John was now rubbing his leaking cockhead- slick with his fluids- directly against Sherlock’s sensitive entrance and he was quickly loosing his mind to the feel of that long-awaited forbidden pleasure.

John moaned and Sherlock could _feel_ him swelling as he approached orgasm, his hips loosing their rhythm.

_Just a little steeper angle and he’ll push the tip inside of me. He’d come inside me, hot and sticky. It would lubricate him enough to slide further in. I could be filled up finally…_

Sherlock’s body was unprepared, though, and the thought of the pain it would cause – and possible damage – caused him to pull away before John could finish. The man gave a pained whimper and rolled onto his stomach to hump the mattress. Sherlock watched a second, his mouth hanging open stupidly, then recalled his training and shoved the man until he toppled onto the floor and jolted awake.

“I believe I told you not to pleasure yourself. That includes in your sleep,” Sherlock stated, proud of himself for maintaining a neutral voice.

“You… you can’t be serious!” John stammered, staggering out of the blankets that had wrapped around his body as he fell.

“I suggest you take care of the problem you’ve caused me with your silly frotting.”

“What?” John blinked at him in confusion and Sherlock arched his back to display his erect cock fully.

John swallowed and gave it his usual look of fear and apprehension, but his cock was still hard and leaking. A few more days – a week at most – and it wouldn’t matter that Sherlock had a penis. He’d be gagging for him.

“You’re doing so good,” Sherlock purred his approval out, running a hand over his body, “Just a little longer and I’ll give you a reward worthy of your obedience. I’m not such a hard master, am I?”

“You’re the worse sort,” John argued miserably, “You’re the sort who think you’re good for your slaves. You’ll be the death of me.”

“A bit of orgasm denial never killed anyone,” Sherlock laughed, motioning John forward and leaning back in relief as the man palmed his erection, “Use your mouth.”

“I’ve never…”

“It’s not so difficult. Just mind your teeth and I’ll do the rest.”

John lowered his head slowly, licking his lips and looking worried, but his cock still hung heavy between his thighs as he wrapped his lips around Sherlock’s aching cock. Sherlock found himself engulfed in tight, wet, heat and let his head fall back against the pillows. He moaned appreciatively, wrapping one hand around his cock to stop himself choking the slave on his rather long member and gripped John’s hair with the other hand. John didn’t like it. He could tell from the start, so he tried to make it end soon for his benefit. The end result was a rather quickly wrung out orgasm that left him feeling… unfulfilled. Sherlock sulked a bit as John bolted for the chamber pot and spat out his spunk, making retching noises.

“It’s not so awful,” Sherlock pouted.

“Oh, you’ve tasted it, have you?”

“Of course. I’ve tasted my own. I ran an experiment at one point sampling what foods affected the taste of semen. My then current slave and I worked together for that one. He was most pleased with the diet I currently keep. I avoid asparagus just for you, you know.”

“I’m grateful, then,” John replied, but he sounded a bit sarcastic.

When he straightened Sherlock was sorry to see his erection had vanished.

“You’ll come to enjoy it,” Sherlock insisted.

“I’m fully aware what you’re aiming for by making me stop masturbating _again_. I’m _trying_ to work with you, you know. I’ve seen how other slaves are treated; I know I’ve got it good, but you can’t expect a miracle. I’m just not _gay_.”

Sherlock was impressed. None of his other slaves had guessed at any of his manipulations, least of all the two he’d experimented with orgasm denial with. He of course realized John was the most educated slave he’d ever owned, but that he read Sherlock so well was a surprise. Oh, he was still far inferior to Sherlock mentally, but it was still refreshing to have someone who wasn’t irritatingly dumb and dull-witted. Then his wandering brain caught up with what John had said and reached a horrid conclusion.

“Am I so hideous to you?” Sherlock asked, the words leaving his mouth before he even recognized what they were. He winced in humiliation once they’d been uttered.

“No, not hideous, far from it. You’re likely the most attractive man I know,” John consoled as he poured himself a glass of water from a nearby pitcher.

“Then what is the _problem_?” Sherlock snarled in frustration.

“I just don’t like the idea of being… penetrated. It makes my arse clench and my throat gag. You can’t change me; you can no more make me gay than you can stop being so yourself.”

Sherlock knew what John meant, but in his mind he felt accused of _wanting_ the penetration he’d given to John – the full feeling he so often fantasized about. He felt exposed, tricked, and utterly empty inside. His reaction was instant rage and he bolted from the bed, snatched up his riding crop from the mantle and descended on a pale faced and shocked John in a full fury. He snapped the crop across the arms thrown up to protect his face, followed him with it to the ground and kept cracking it across his back and shoulders until he drew blood.

Sherlock stepped back, horrified by his own behavior, and stared at the man curled up defensively on the floor. He would bruise, was already covered in growing red welts, and one particularly soft spot on the fleshy part of his shoulder was bleeding a bit.

“You’re stronger than I am, trained in the military, have medical knowledge that would enable you to take me down quickly and efficiently. Why didn’t you? Why did you let me beat you?” Sherlock asked accusatorily.

John slowly raised himself up, eyes moving from the crop to Sherlock’s face as he analyzed the remaining threat level. Not finding any, he relaxed visibly and gave Sherlock a confused look.

“I’m a slave, remember? You’d have me killed.”

Sherlock swallowed, his jaw locked as his teeth clenched together painfully. It was useless. This man was strong and willful, intelligent and calculating, patient and gentle in every way. Sherlock would never see him prostrating himself before him, whimpering and begging for his cock (even while being un-aroused by it) like others had. He didn’t want to. He wanted to be on his knees before _him_ instead. He wanted to cry out for him and hear him moan in response as he buried himself deep inside Sherlock’s body. Here was someone worthy of the title of prince without having been born to it. Gracious, kind, wise, giving, just, and utterly regal despite being naked and beaten on his knees on the floor. Sherlock could think of a thousand examples in the last few days of how much a better person than he this slave was: starting with when he’d given his supper away to a peasant outside their gates and ending with how devotedly he waited on a man who he practically hated.

“Are you hurt?” John asked, levering himself to his feet and stepping forward.

Sherlock blinked in confusion, and that’s when he felt the tears that had been steadily blurring his vision slip down his cheeks. He was crying. In front of a slave. He should threaten him and make sure he knew never to tell anyone what he’d seen. He couldn’t. He had no idea how to speak to this man who walked a thin line between hating and admiring Sherlock – not for his rank and inherited power, but because he honestly thought Sherlock brilliant. Brilliant and mad, he’d heard him mutter while helping him with his experiments.

Sherlock slipped his arms around John’s body, grateful the man had the control not to wince away when his injuries were pressed, and simply held him close.

“Is this more of your malady?” John asked as he rested his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Sherlock lied, but he was thinking that this was a _new_ malady.

XXXXXXXX

Sherlock made himself run experiments later that day. He felt he must. He had to do _something_ to keep himself from going mad with boredom and quite possibly doing unspeakable things to John. Instead he involved him in the lab, testing his concoctions on him and marking down the results. The good thing about having a Healing Mage as a test subject was that he Healed himself instinctively. Burns, allergic reactions, and even scorched hair all made itself right again within a few minutes to a day. John scowled something fierce, but Sherlock only smirked and teased him that he’d get lines for it.

[CHAPTER SIX](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/27114.html)


	6. vincentmeoblinn | The Mage's Slave Ch 6

Once a month, as decreed by their ancestor Arthur Pendragon, the king was to hold court and listen to the problems of his people. The goal was to humble the king and to give the people a sense of being cared for. Perhaps it had worked in the past, but the moment King Siger realized his second and third sons were brilliant at solving simple problems within a few seconds of being presented them – and could resolve the more complicated ones as well – he began shirking this duty off on them. Some of the peasants complained that this is what came of letting a woman’s line inherit; referring to how the Pendragon name had made way for the Holmes name when only a daughter was born to the Pendragon line. Of course, women had reached equality since then, so these foul tidings were kept under wraps for fear of appearing backwards.

Today was Sherlock’s turn in court and while he normally enjoyed this sort of thing, after his horrid emotional turmoil with John yesterday he was far from looking forward to it. He sat in the smaller chair beside his father and mother’s – normally reserved for Sherrinford but the dunce could barely tie his shoes – leaned his head back against the headrest, closed his eyes, and left it mostly to John to interact with the people.

John read from a list he’d been provided, which had been narrowed down by an unfortunate scribe who first interviewed the people at the door, who were then sent off to wait for their day in front of the king, who upon returning were then searched before being admitted to see… a friendly slave and a bored prince. Sherlock looked asleep, but he replied when he felt it necessary.

“Francis Berrypicker of Byberry Farms,” John read dutifully, “Who believes a werewolf is killing his sheep.”

“It’s a coyote,” Sherlock stated, “Go home and take up archery if you can’t afford to pay someone to get rid of it for you.”

John edged closer and whispered to him, “You can’t know that for sure, what if it is a werewolf, or at least a wolf? Wolves are dangerous.”

“Byberry farm is surrounded by a peat bog, it’s the only high ground for miles, therefore no wolves for even more miles, and a werewolf wouldn’t bother with sheep when nice yummy berry-pickers were walking around – not to mention the last full moon was last night and he showed up four days ago with this complaint. Timings a bit off, don’t you think?”

“That’s brilliant!” John exclaimed, then flushed and sent the man out with an apology.

“Mrs. Niles Hudson,” John announced, “Whose husband is charged with murder. You have some proof he’s innocent, I presume?”

“You assume too much, young man. I want to make sure he never leaves jail again!” She declared.

Sherlock smirked from where he was seated, though he didn’t otherwise stir himself, and John asked her to repeat the details of the murder.

“My husband is a mean drunk, and a regular sot when he isn’t,” Mrs. Hudson explained.

Sherlock snorted, but made no comment so John motioned for her to continue.

“Three weeks ago he was out drinking with his chums and decided to grope this poor pretty young bar maid. The dear thing has been turning him away for years, oh, it’s just shameful.”

“Do get on with it,” Sherlock sighed.

“She shot him down, he broke a bottle over the bar and threatened her with it. The barkeep tossed him out on the streets. The next morning the dear lamb was found with her throat sliced up.”

“Has she been buried?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, sire.”

“Hmm, pity,” Sherlock replied, still not opening his eyes, “Stabbings leave such interesting patterns, especially when done with non-traditional items.”

“Sherlock!” John hissed, making sure to keep it low enough that only Sherlock heard; he knew he’d be punished otherwise.

“Your accent says Yorkshire, which pub was it? The Stallion or the Ginger Tonic?”

“The Stallion, sire.”

“The woman found where?”

“On the bridge, sire.”

“They searched for a weapon?”

“Beneath the bridge and in the brush, from what I understand. I wanted to help, but they wouldn’t let me,” The strange older woman scowled.

“You’ll find the murder weapon in the reeds twenty-four to twenty-six feet south of the bridge depending on how much rain we’ve gotten,” Sherlock explained, “I suggest you flirt with old Bailywick at the constabulary. He’ll follow you anywhere you lead. Tell him you see something glinting in the water and want to know what it is. He’ll go down and find it. He’s smart enough to put two and two together on a crime that recent, but only just; you might have to give him a nudge or two. Make him dinner and desert and he’ll make sure your name stays out of the findings. Make him dinner and _breakfast_ and he’ll make sure you get to keep your property after the lowlife hangs.”

“Thank you, sire! Oh, you’ll make a fine king someday!”

“I’m not going to be king, that despicable task falls to my oldest brother,” Sherlock replied, waving his fingers to shoo her off.

“Oh, we’ll see about that, we will. You mark my words, son, you’ve got _destiny_ written all over you.”

Sherlock snorted and the woman took her leave.

“Miss Mary Sutherland,” John read, and gave the well-dressed woman a surprised look. Usually only the downtrodden appeared here.

“My fiancé has vanished, sire, and I suspect foul play.”

The sobbing young woman – barely out of girlhood - went on to explain that she had been seeing a gentleman behind her stepfather’s back, but with her mother’s approval. Eventually he had proposed marriage, but on the marriage day acted frightened and begged her to stay true to him if something should separate them and he be away for some time. Sherlock recognized the issue at once and questioned her closely, taking a look at the letters she had brought with her.

John stepped closer as the young woman explained that she could pay for the investigation, for she had a tidy sum of money from an inheritance which she rarely dipped into as she also kept herself busy selling books. He sighed as he looked over her letters and shook his head sadly.

“My lady,” Sherlock stated, “I shall glance into the case for you. Do not let yourself think on it further. Above all, try to put Mr. Hosmer Angel out of your memory, as he has vanished from your life.”

The woman looked further distraught, “Then you don’t think I’ll see him again?”

“I fear not,” He replied, giving her a consoling look.

“But what has _happened_ to him?”

“You will leave that question in my hands, along with these papers, and let the whole incident be a sealed book. Remember my advice to you; do not allow this to affect your life.”

“You are very kind, Sire, but I can not do that. If my Hosmer returns he will find me dutifully waiting for him, even if it makes me an old maid before he does.”

Sherlock gave her a pitying look and watched her leaving, holding up a hand to stop John from calling another subject.

“Have her step-father collected – a Mr. Windibank – and see to it he vanishes from his home as effectively as his alter-ego Mr. Angel did from the churchyard,” Sherlock ordered the guards, “Bring him to my chambers once you’ve acquired him.”

“They were one and the same! He was courting his step-daughter?” John asked, appalled.

“It was a foul trick, but he’s broken no laws so I can’t punish him properly, nor will revealing the truth bring solace to Miss Sutherland. Thankfully princes _are_ above the law, as this fool thinks himself.”

“Why would he do such a thing? And with the mother’s approval? To bed her?”

“No, no, if that were the case he’d have gone through with the marriage, one look at the lass and you can see she’s untouched. Sadly, she’ll likely remain that way for the rest of her years; she’s been so badly done. No, it was her inheritance he was after. As long as she remained single and living with her mamma he could collect payment from her since she earned a private living rather than being a burden on the household. He has effectively ruined her for other men, the villain.”

“What are you going to do to him?” John asked.

“What little I can. Find an excuse to flog him and send him on his way. Men like him rise from crime to crime; he’ll find his ways to the gallows someday.”

John nodded respectfully, “But you won’t tell the girl?”

“She’d never believe me,” Sherlock sighed.

Sherlock rarely felt badly for anyone, but he did for that young woman. She would spend her life alone and unfulfilled – much as Sherlock did – always waiting for her true love to return. Sherlock met John’s eyes for the first time since that yesterday morning and saw the open admiration and muted concern in them. Here was someone who he could be _happy_ with, if only circumstances weren’t against them. If only Sherlock trusted himself not to break this man, who was made of more substance and life than the earth he tread upon. If only…

“Mr. Weatherby,” John read and a man entered carrying an urn.

“My uncle died last week, but when I picked him up at the crematorium I got _this_ instead. It isn’t him, I know it isn’t, I _know_ human ashes.”

Sherlock was about to dismiss him as a madman when he thought, _what the hell?_

He motioned the man forward, had him remove the top, and gently touched a finger into the ashes. They were ashes all right – from an oak tree.

“Well, that _is_ interesting.”

XXXXXXXX

Sherlock and John went out to inspect the crematorium the uncle had been sent to only to find the owner had up and run. Sherlock and John returned to the castle empty handed with a larger puzzle on their hands. Sherlock was angry and bored, pacing his chambers and snapping at John. It wasn’t until Sherlock pulled the man into bed that he finally calmed down and fell silent.

Sherlock tugged John on top of him, wanting to feel that heavy weight above him. He ran his hands over John’s body and wrapped his legs around his waist.

“Rub your hips, oh! Yes! Like that!” Sherlock gasped and writhed in pleasure as John began to thrust against him in mimicry of fucking him.

To his surprise, this time John became aroused- his shaft hardening quickly as he panted and thrust their cocks together before taking them both in hand. Sherlock threw his head back and moaned appreciatively while John pleasured them both. When he opened his eyes again John’s face was a mixture of surprise and arousal, flushed all the way to his ears. His pupils were dilated and he licked his lips as though he wanted to devour Sherlock.

“Am I allowed to come?” John gasped, his voice cracking in anticipation.

“Yes!” Sherlock cried out, and spilled himself between them.

John stroked them both a few times more to milk Sherlock’s orgasm, then broke away and only stroked himself once Sherlock proved too sensitive. Sherlock stared up at him, the proud man kneeling between Sherlock’s splayed legs as he stroked himself steadily towards completion. He seemed to be holding himself off, though why Sherlock had no idea.

John opened his eyes and stroked a hand along Sherlock’s hip, his lips parted and his breath coming fast. Sherlock’s cock gave an interested twitch, but before he could entertain thoughts of a repeat performance, John threw his head back and came with a strangled scream. Sherlock moaned at the sight of those hips pumping as he fucked his own hand, pausing as he spurted before thrusting again and then giving his cock a few short strokes. He sighed and sat back on his heals, smiling lazily down at the mess on Sherlock’s stomach.

It wasn’t until after they had cleaned off and fell into bed together – giggling like primary school children and joking about the ‘cases’ they’d seen that day– that he realized how utterly foolish he’d been in front of John once more. He couldn’t let a _slave_ come on him like some common street whore! He had forgotten, in the depths of their camaraderie, that they were not the near-equals that John sometimes behaved as though they were. Sherlock lay in bed, listening to John’s breathing even out and tried to think of what he could do to put the man in his place once more.

Nothing he could tolerate doing came to mind.

[CHAPTER SEVEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/27205.html)


	7. vincentmeoblinn | The Mage's Slave Ch 7

John fussed over Sherlock relentlessly the next day while Sherlock sunk into a deep malaise. Eventually though, Sherlock had him strip off his shirt and took a look at the injuries that he’d caused the day before. They had already healed of course, leaving no obvious marks on his body. John’s ability to heal himself was instinctive, it would seem.

“How in control are you? You said you used your powers rarely?”

“Not rarely, just when I knew I wouldn’t be caught. I took the night shift while on the battlefield and sped up the healing of the patients sleeping in the medical tent. I rarely could heal them outright, but I could prevent them from dying occasionally. I just wish I could do more. I’d had little practice before that, though a few in my home village knew and kept my secret as they had my father’s.”

John started to re-dress but Sherlock indicated he should leave his shirt off and motioned him closer. He had him kneel before his chair and sat with his legs splayed so that he could reach John better. Sherlock ran his fingers across the plains of John’s muscled chest and abdomen. He wasn’t overly muscular, but it was obvious that he was used to hard work on a regular basis.

“You have done more than healing,” Sherlock mentioned, teasing John’s pebbled nipples.

“My family grew their own herbs. We had a gigantic field full of them and sold them to other village’s healers. I spent many hours a day in our ‘garden’ and also in seeking out the kinds that couldn’t be grown by men. Magical herbs refuse to grow outside of Faerie forests. We had one near our village and I was able to enter it, even after I lost my virginity.”

“How did you manage that?” Sherlock asked in surprise.

“I struck a deal with the Sidhe princess, Farore,” John replied, blushing.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. Such deals often proved deadly: “What sort of deal?”

“That I would learn Faerie healing practices and aid her people if needed, even if it meant turning against my own. I have learned a bit from them, but they never collected on their debt.”

Sherlock was more than alarmed now. The Sidhe wouldn’t care if John had switched alliances after their deal had been struck. Sherlock was going to have to make sure that his father didn’t piss off anyone from the Faerie realm. It likely wouldn’t matter if the particular Faerie was even one of that particular realm’s people; they always banded together against humans.

“You should have seen my father’s face the first time I mentioned I wouldn’t be able to enter the forest,” John chuckled, “I thought he’d be at least a _bit_ proud of me for getting my cherry popped, but he was just furious. I was the only one in the village able to enter besides my sister, and they were hell-bent on seducing her into joining them so it was me or bust.”

“What was so special about your sister?”

“I never found out, though I suspected a few things,” John sighed sadly, “They took her one night. Right out of her bed. She was about sixteen at the time. It’s been a couple of years since then and even me going in to plead for her return did nothing despite my favor with the princess Farore.”

“Did your sister show preference for the same gender? Or behave like her opposite?”

John blinked in surprise: “Yes! Both! How did you…? Only I ever knew. She kept it a secret. Father and mother wanted her to marry a man and had him already picked by the time she figured herself out. She didn’t want to disappoint them.”

“Ah,” Sherlock nodded, “So that’s where your aversion to homosexuality comes from. Your parents disapprove of the activity.”

“Not that they ever expressed to me,” John shrugged, “but what about my sister?”

“The Sidhe have a special place in their hearts for those who are drawn to their own gender, especially if they occasionally _feel_ like the opposite gender they were born as – they refer to them as two-souled or fluid. Sometimes they can be heterosexual and still be drawn to them if they’re two-souled. They often carry them off.”

John frowned and stared towards the window.

“What do they do to them?” He asked, worrying his lip in that charming way Sherlock loved.

Sherlock leaned forward and captured that tortured lip in his own teeth, tugging it gently before coaxing John into a kiss, but John pulled away after a moment, concern in his eyes.

“Sire, please, she’s my baby sister. Please.”

Sherlock sighed and relented, “They change them sometimes. Make them able to switch gender at will. Donovan is such a changeling. You’ve seen her occasionally look a bit different?”

John’s eyebrows rose: “I thought she was just binding her breasts so they wouldn’t get in her way!”

“No, they vanish and presumably male genitals grow, though I’ve never confirmed it. Anderson was bisexual. He thought he’d hit the lottery with her. Instead of a monthly menses she switches to a man. It was like having a monthly affair to him.” Sherlock chuckled.

John momentarily looked even graver after hearing about Anderson, but focused on the new information instead.

“So my sister is likely fine?”

“Fine and probably far happier than she would have been with an arranged marriage to a man she could never be satisfied with. Now if only _I_ could satisfy _you_.”

Sherlock meant to lean forward and kiss him sweetly, but John beat him to it by kissing him passionately. Sherlock found himself pulled off the chair and into the lap of the passionate slave. John gripped his buttocks tightly and ground against him, suddenly needy. It didn’t take long for them to both become hard.

“Oh gods, I was so sure…” John breathed, tugging at Sherlock’s shirt.

Sherlock moaned; his brain shutting down so fast he couldn’t process what it was that John had been convinced of, though he did deduce it wasn’t about his sister. He eagerly helped John strip him of his cloak and shirt before they both stood to strip each other of their trousers. Sherlock quickly found himself breathless as they moved toward the bed with John groping him relentlessly. John pushed Sherlock down onto the bed with surprising force and climbed between his thighs. Sherlock arched up off the bed as every fantasy about bottoming he’d ever enjoyed flashed before his eyes.

“Mmm, you like this, do you?” John growled, and the sound went straight to Sherlock’s cock and had him panting instantly, “This is what you want, isn’t it? Not a limp slave in your bed; you want a _real_ man.”

“Yes!” Sherlock’s confession both excited and terrified him. He shouldn’t trust a slave with this; hadn’t they left him before?

“Sherlock,” John breathed, nipping his neck and making Sherlock quake with anticipation.

“I’m so alone,” Sherlock gasped, his rationale quite gone.

“I’m here,” John whispered, hand grasping Sherlock’s cock and stroking it with a firmness he’d never employed before, “Don’t you feel me?”

Sherlock cried out and shuddered, his body desperate for more. John seemed to read this, dove for the bedside drawers, and pulled out the oil. He grasped one of Sherlock’s thighs and lifted it, drizzling the oil along Sherlock’s cleft before reaching down and stroking a finger over Sherlock’s twitching entrance. Sherlock keened shamelessly and pressed back on that digit. He’d never even dared to stick more than a single finger into himself, too worried his fetish would be discovered. John was just starting to apply pressure when the door was knocked on firmly. Sherlock panicked and grappled with the man, flipping them both so that John was on the bottom and pressing one of his legs between his when the door burst inward and Donovan stepped in.

A disgusted look flashed across Donovan’s face before being respectfully restrained.

“The king calls for your slave. It’s urgent.”

“For my _slave?_ ”

Donovan shrugged and shut the door. Sherlock glanced down at John to ask him what his father would want with him but hurriedly scrambled off of him at the look on his face. He’d gone still; his eyes afraid, and his member decidedly limp. Sherlock frowned and then started connecting the dots. Aside from right after the necromancy ordeal, John only responded to him when he _wasn’t_ trying to top him. In fact, if he thought about it the night they’d spent together after the battle was just that – a night spent _together_. Sherlock might have physically topped John, but first he’d bathed, fed, and otherwise _loved_ him.

John sat up slowly, his face drawn and still, while Sherlock tried to process what he’d just learned.

“You don’t want to be penetrated, you told me once, but that isn’t it, is it? You don’t want to be _topped_ ,” Sherlock concluded.

“You mean I don’t want to be reminded that I’m just a slave you use to get off? No, not really my favorite kink.”

“It’s more than that, you’re not just unresponsive you’re _aggressively_ uninterested. You were raped…”

“No one raped me,” John cut him off with a sigh, “I’ve just been at bloody _war_ and before that a healer for several villages. Do you have any idea how may rape victims I’ve seen? It’s a bloody turn off.”

Sherlock nodded and then stepped close to John again, moving slowly as though approaching a nervous horse. The slave seemed it, jerking his head back at the first touch, but then he leaned forward into Sherlock’s touch when he realized it was gentle.

“I have to maintain appearances because you are a slave,” Sherlock explained softly, “But in light of recent events…”

John tugged Sherlock down for a kiss, then stood while still kissing him and gave both his biceps a tight squeeze.

“The king,” John breathed when they parted for air.

“Yes, him,” Sherlock sighed.

They dressed hurriedly, glancing at each other covertly, and then rushed to the throne room.

XXX

John’s head was spinning. He had no idea what had made him so suddenly wanton. He had been relieved about his sister, yes, but that hadn’t been it. He’d been watching Sherlock’s face. Usually the prince was so straight faced and cold, but lately he’d been smiling sincerely and this time his eyebrows had drawn together, his lips twitched into a frown, his eyes softened… he’d looked as though he were trying to comfort John. Then he’d made that statement about _satisfying_ him and… a switch had flipped into his head. Suddenly Sherlock was sexually available and he was sexually aroused and the idea of burying himself in the man’s body had suddenly been the most important activity beyond breathing.

XXX

Sherlock hadn’t had time to do more than wipe off the oil John had drizzled down his backside and it hadn’t come off completely. His cheeks slid against each other sensually as he walked and it kept him half hard unless he thought pointedly about _anything_ else besides what John had been about to do to his needy body. They reached the throne room to find Sherlock’s father smirking in that wicked way he did when someone was going to end up in pain.

Sherlock immediately felt himself go cold and wished he’d brought his focus with him. The fact was he rarely carried it with him within the palace walls because his Magic made his father uneasy and he wanted no excuse to fall under his ill treatment as he occasionally had in the past. He’d once ended up in the dungeon for a night, not because of his sharp tongue but because he had gotten angry enough to root his father’s feet to the ground using Magic so he could get in the last word. The king hated to be at a disadvantage.

To the right of the king was a man on a stretcher. Sadly, he was decidedly dead so Sherlock realized immediately why John had been called forward. John was far slower on the uptake and rushed over to check the corpses pulse. Sherlock rolled his eyes while the slave’s back was turned.

“I’m sorry, sire,” John stated, keeping his eyes down and remaining on his knees beside the stretcher, “He’s already gone.”

“I am aware of that. He’s been ‘gone’ for quite a bit, actually. This man,” King Siger gestured to the corpse, “Was a spy for our people who was caught sneaking back into our country and killed by our enemies. The information in his brain is vital to the survival of Camelot. I understand you are a Necromancer. Bring him back from the dead so that I might question him.”

John knelt there, a look of panic on his face, and finally glanced sideways at Sherlock.

“Father,” Sherlock stated, stepping forward and putting a protective hand on John’s shoulder, “I’m afraid that may not be possible. You see necromancy is an imprecise art. Sometimes the brain is too far damaged for speech and memories to be accessed – especially in an older corpse. Also, the man can not possibly be brought back to life – only the illusion of it can be granted.”

“I am aware of that, Sherlock, thank you,” Siger’s tone implied no thanks, “I care not for his continued life, only the information in his cold skull. Get on with it, slave, before he rots further.”

For a brief moment Sherlock hoped that John didn’t have his focus with him and he would have to fetch it – giving Sherlock an opportunity to have John bring his as well – but the slave apparently carried it everywhere now. He reached into his tunic and pulled it from a pocket that wasn’t originally part of the design. He must have sewn it in to give him a less obvious place to hide it.

Elemental Magic was the most honest form of Magic; it required only the Mage’s focus – both the _physical_ focus and his mental focus – in order to reach out and harness the flow. Ceremonial or High Magic, however, lived up to it’s name and required a ceremony or ritual, and usually some sort of sacrifice. For Sherlock whose High Magic was Transmutation, the original object and a bit of his energy were the sacrifice. Once Transmutated into something else it took far more energy to return it to its original form. Especially if the new form were a different type of complexity or a different mass. There were exceptions to this rule, of course. Many a Mage had utilized his power in a moment of extreme grief or rage to disastrous consequence without use of either focus or ceremony. Sherlock had done so before as a child, but the Magic was forgiving of children and required no sacrifice when they performed it so he had remained unharmed.

John performed his gruesome ritual of feeding his blood to the corpse while singing his mournful song – his blood and energy was the sacrifice in this ritual. Then he stabbed the cadaver through the skull – really that knife was terrifyingly sharp - and then stabbed himself as well! Sherlock flinched when the knife was plunged into John’s forehead, and both guards took a step forward in alarm, but John was clearly alive despite his slack face and vacant eyes. His body gave off a faint amethyst glow as his hands fell to his sides and he turned his head from one side to another in an oddly serpentine manor.

“Ask,” John spoke, but his voice was that of another man! Sherlock’s gut clenched in horror; he’d expected the corpse to speak, not for his lover to use another man’s voice as his own!

“What news from the court of King Moriarty?” Siger demanded.

“The Final Problem must be solved,” John replied in the dead man’s voice.

“What Final Problem?”

“The Final Problem must be solved.”

“What _is_ the Final Problem?”

“The Final Problem must be solved.”

“Define Final Problem!” Siger roared.

“The Final Problem must be solved.”

“Damn it all to…” Siger took a breath and narrowed his eyes as he considered the situation, “What are Moriarty’s plans?”

“To extend his power to encompass the entire world.”

“How does he plan to achieve such a goal?”

“I… I…” John’s body swayed where he knelt on the floor, he blinked – Sherlock realized it was for the first time – and then suddenly shivered all over.

“How?!” Siger roared, standing in his frustration and crossing to where John knelt.

Sherlock was across the room instantly, stepping forward and propelling his father back with both words and hands.

“If you touch him, he will die and you might never find another Necromancer again! Only one of their kind are ever alive in the world at a time!”

John spoke once more, but the voice was higher and most certainly Irish: “I’m coming to get you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock spun in alarm and the entire court stilled in apparent horror. John’s sightless eyes raised and seemed to almost focus on Sherlock.

“I’m coming to get you, Sherlock,” John repeated and Sherlock shivered in revulsion.

“What is this?” Siger whispered from behind Sherlock. He was backing onto his throne again, apparently to give himself something to put his back against.

“I’ve no idea,” Sherlock replied at a loss, “Theoretically the dead _communicating_ means they can respond to their surroundings, but…”

“I’m coming to get you, Sherlock.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked softly.

“Because we’re alike, you and I,” John answered in a singsong voice, “You and your pet are going to be soooooo preeeeety when you bow down at my feet.”

“Who are you?”

“You haven’t guessed, Sherlock? I’m the Final Problem.”

Sherlock smiled softly, “ _Who_ is the Final Problem?”

The corner of John’s mouth lifted in a mad half-smile: “King James Moriarty. Hiiiiii!”

John’s expression suddenly shifted to one of pain and with a scream of agony he reached up and wrenched the clean knife from his skull and collapsed across the floor, gasping and sobbing in pain. He was trembling, his face as grey as the corpse on the floor, but as Sherlock motioned a guard forward to call a servant in his father held them back.

“I would reward such services, necromancer. Return to me once you are well again.”

John nodded weakly and two servants came in and bore John away to the court physician. Sherlock stared after him with a pool of excitement churning in his stomach. King Moriarty was apparently far cleverer than any of them had ever expected, especially if he had somehow managed to find a _second_ Necromancer! Sherlock was eager to find what else the man was capable of.

[CHAPTER EIGHT](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/27537.html)


	8. vincentmeoblinn | The Mage's Slave Ch 8

John was only about an hour at getting sorted, requiring only a shot of whiskey followed by a glass of water to straighten out his system. He declined food and rejoined Sherlock in the King’s thrown room. He looked a bit pale, but otherwise seemed well enough. The king was smirking quite a bit and seemed almost excited as he glanced around the room. He faced Sherlock’s slave and spoke quite proudly.  
“In light of your dutiful behavior and sacrifice I will grant you your freedom, you will now be a servant under my son Sherrinford.”  
Sherlock’s head spun at this stupid suggestion. Aside from the obvious flaws – namely that a slave captured from another country and promoted to servant would simply quit and seek out his old life since he had no purpose in remaining – there was the rather glaringly obvious social stigma for Sherlock. To have sex with a slave was considered putting your property to good use, even if you had to force it along. To have sex with a servant was seen as bedding beneath you, and to rape them was considered cruel and tactless. True, it happened, but for word of it to get out was considered scandal. With John employed as Sherrinford’s manservant he’d not only be unable to touch the man again, by location and employ alone he’d be unable to so much as speak to him! The thought was intolerable.  
Sherlock glanced at John to see his reaction and the man looked like Winter Solstice had come early! He was grinning from ear to ear. A sense of acute betrayal shot through Sherlock. This man had been about to do something so utterly personal with Sherlock, as near to taking his virginity as was possible in an experienced man, and now he was celebrating his freedom!  
“Sire, such a reward is unbecoming,” Sherlock spoke calmly, “and besides that I will not relinquish my slave. John has become invaluable to me. If you give him this post he will simply walk out of the castle with his head in the air and head back to King Moriarty’s men, leaving him with two necromancers.”  
John’s head snapped over to Sherlock and a look of betrayal crossed his face. Sherlock raised his chin and stared down his nose at him defiantly.  
“In that case,” King Siger drawled, “What would you suggest for a reward?”  
“A title, my Lord. A title and land,” John gaped at Sherlock’s statement, and then smiled beatifically, “He will have reason to stay both in our courts and in our country.”  
And I will be able to propose marriage to a noble, even one of artificial gain, and there will be no shame in giving my body over to him then! After all, every family started out impoverished and worked their way up to status, it’s just so long ago most have forgotten. John tolerates me as no one else has. He admires me in a way. We could be content.  
“And in your bed,” the King chortled, surprising Sherlock with his insight, “Your reasoning is clear to me, don’t think I haven’t noticed you staring at him as if he were a slab of meat and you a hungry scavenger. He will be Sherrinford’s servant. It is better for you to seek your own station, not move slaves up to have an excuse to bed them openly.”  
“Sire, I am bedding him already, I could conceivably continue were he a servant – yes I have no fear in shaming you – but I think it would be better for all if he were promoted to a higher station. Don’t you agree?”  
Mycroft had hissed suddenly and given a slight shake of his head partway through Sherlock’s speech, but he had ignored the man. Once King Siger started to speak again, however, he wished he’d held his tongue.  
“John has not garnered a high enough reward based on one raising of a single dead spy.”  
“You still have not rewarded him for saving hundreds of lives, likely including my own, and preventing you having to pay out a ransom!” Sherlock fumed.  
King Siger laughed and Sherlock realized with a curl of horror in his belly that his father never would have paid the ransom. Sherlock, John, and the near two hundred men in that camp would have died together.  
“If he wishes a noble title and lands fitting for someone of higher birth, then I will give him the opportunity to earn it. There, you see Sherlock? I am not entirely heartless. Come and see the test I have laid out for your bedfellow.”  
Sherlock, Mycroft, a confused Sherrinford (he always was unless he was stabbing something) John, Lestrade, Donovan, and two guards all marched out the door together and followed King Siger to the smallest and least occupied section of the castle. It was chill here, bordering on cold, and Sherlock drew John closer for warmth once they halted their march. They stopped in front of a door, which was alarmingly heavily guarded with a good six men. King Siger dismissed those men and kept his own two personal guards with him. These were two of a set of eight guards who were close enough to King Siger to warrant some of his confidence.  
The guards leaving stirred up a breeze, Sherlock noted a cloying smell in the air and a coil of revulsion filled his belly. He tried to hold John against himself, but Siger stepped forward and tugged John loose, scowling at Sherlock for his attempt to keep the slave pressed to his side. King Siger himself opened the door, which Sherlock recalled led into a war conference room during their grandfather’s time. It was a good twelve by twenty-four meters in size with twelve foot vaulted ceilings.  
It was filled from wall to wall, from floor to ceiling, with the bodies of dead soldiers, farmers, and probably a good many more caste types that Sherlock couldn’t see; only a small section of floor just inside the doorway was free of corpses, just enough for a man to stand and in here John was mercilessly thrust.  
They were lain one on top of the other, stacked like bricks, and one had his head turned towards them in a parody of a scream at the atrocity to which his corpse had fallen. A frozen breeze blew towards him, which meant the windows inside were likely open to the February frost to keep the men decomposing, but the packing was so tight that it had at least partially started in the middle of the room and the smell was appalling. Sherlock spared a moment to wonder how no one had found this out on the other side of the walls, then recalled that this particular room had a hedge maze outside it’s walls. No one would traverse it in winter.  
John had frozen when first shoved partially into the room. He stood there, shocked and revolted for a moment, then turned and ran from the room – gagging and holding a hand over his mouth. He wasn’t ill, though that was probably testament to his time on the battlefield. Instead he threw himself into Sherlock’s arms and trembled there in dismay. Sherlock wrapped both arms tightly around John and narrowed his eyes at his father.  
King Siger was laughing uproariously. Sherrinford had drawn back and was taking steady breaths through his mouth to avoid being sick. The guards had failed and were being violently ill on the floor. Mycroft stood off to one side, strategically located to avoid the foul draft coming from the room.  
So. He had known.  
“You see, my lad,” King Siger chortled, “If you want a title and noble status you must work for it. Hell, I’ll even give my foppish youngest son to do with as you please. He’d like that, wouldn’t you Sherlock?”  
“I can’t. Please, Sherlock, don’t make me do this!” John shook in his arms.  
“You’re begging the wrong man, slave,” King Siger sneered, “You will raise me an undead army to destroy my enemies or I will run you through right where you stand – my ponce of a son included!”  
King Siger pulled a sword from his hip and Mycroft gave Sherlock a worried look.  
Sherlock, however, had passed far beyond pissed off and into something cold and violent. His breathing had been steadily picking up, too far gone to be offended by the stink of death and decay, and he felt a coil of what he assumed to be rage twisting in his belly. Too late did he realize that hot burning sensation was not wrath.  
The coil snapped, and with it Magic flared unchecked and out of control around them. The castle walls and part of the ceiling turned from stone to dust and showered over them, a chair dropping down from the second floor off to their right. The door to the room of corpses toppled to the ground as it lacked something to hold it upright. Several of the corpses tumbled grotesquely to the floor as the wall they’d been propped against vanished. That, however, was not the part that made Sherlock shocked and horrified.  
His arms were quite suddenly empty and the man he had been glaring at gone. In their places were a bat, dangling from Sherlock’s shirt and flapping in fear, and an adder curled on the floor, crawling out of a mess of fancy clothes and ready to strike. Sherlock protectively pressed a hand to the vampire bat’s back and backed carefully away from the adder. That was when he noticed the other animals in the room. A red fox, a grey fox, a large boar with massive tusks, a ferret, a terrified bird that escaped out the gaping wall behind Sherlock and into the empty room behind him, and a rather lovely peacock.  
He’d transformed his lover, brothers, father, two knights, and two guards into animals in a fit of Wild Magic. He didn’t even feel tired, so enraged was his mind that he must have drawn energy from the rocks around him rather than his body. That explained their sudden decay, though he had only ever theorized such an act being possible. Sherlock, however, had a decidedly bigger problem than the angry adder advancing on him on the floor.  
He had no idea how to turn them back.

[CHAPTER NINE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/27792.html)


	9. vincentmeoblinn | The Mage's Slave Ch 9

Sherlock’s mind flew, analyzing the situation in the few seconds in which he faced off against his father-turned-venomous-snake.

Option 1) Capture and release all the creatures (except John) into the wilderness and be done with them. Pretend to know nothing.

Option 2) Capture the adder and send it to Moriarty. Make attempts to turn the rest back while running the country in his father’s in his ‘absence’, handing it over to one of his brother’s when the situation was resolved.

Option 3) Kill the adder, click his heals, and take over the crown with John as his lusty Mage husband. 

Option 4) Grab John and his focus and leave… preferably the entire country.

Option 5) Fetch his focus and try to restore them all, and then beg his father for forgiveness.

Option 6) Fetch his focus and try to restore them all, and then make his father fear him by pretending it was intentional.

The adder and the bat decided the situation for him when he nearly missed dodging a strike and John leaped forward, fluttering around Siger’s head and diving in protective fury. It gave Sherlock a chance to dive down for his brother’s dropped sword and make a quick hack at the writhing adder. It was easily chopped in twain, writhing for a moment before falling still. Instantly Sherlock had one answer as to how to dispense the unintentional Curse as the serpent changed back into his father, which might have been comforting had he not been quite dead, naked, and a mess upon the floor.

“Well that’s unattractive,” Sherlock sighed.

John fluttered back and Sherlock put out an arm for him to land on; he struggled a moment then got situated hanging upside down from Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock dipped down to his pile of clothes and fished out John’s focus, tucking it into his waistband.

“Alright? Well… as much as you can be?”

John opened his mouth to scream angrily, but the sounds were out of Sherlock’s hearing range, then fluttered and calmed. Sherlock waited until he had nodded before glancing down at the rest of his mistakes. At least John’s behavior answered the question of whether or not they retained their own minds. They were all huddled together, cowering from him, with the exception of the bird that had flown off. He leaned into the other room to glance at it and motioned for it to rejoin the others, it avoided his gaze for a moment, but when he crooked his finger it fluttered over as quickly as it could and landed in the peacock’s shadow.

“Well then. We have a few ways to handle this; actually I’ve eliminated several of them by killing father. I’m going to alert the guards who left us earlier. Your job is simple. Make a nuisance of yourself and I’ll have no choice but to kill you, or at the very least dump you off in a forest for the rest of your lives. Behave and I’ll change you back.”

_If I can._

Sherlock watched the cowed group, and then walked around the corner to find the guards. The entire event had taken place virtually soundlessly with the exception of the clattering chair, door, and sword fall. With the king ordering them to stay away they would have done just that unless he shouted, which he hadn’t had time to do; the entire incident had taken only a few seconds. The guards were all leaning against the wall passing a bottle back and forth, but they quickly tried to hide it when they saw Sherlock.

“The King sends for us?”

“I’m afraid not. If you go around the corner you’ll find the king, my brothers, and the rest of our party: I advice you not to touch them unless you wish to suffer their fate. I shall return momentarily. Do keep everyone else from wandering back there and causing a scene.”

“What do you mean by fate… Sire?” One babbled.

“Is that a _vampire_ bat on your arm, Sire?” Another asked.

“Ah, yes, quite right: A vampire bat. Formerly my slave, but he made me quite angry a moment ago, so I had to punish him,” Sherlock explained, watching them back away in fear, “Not your current problem, though. Your dead monarch is.”

“Dead?” A third asked.

“Yes, he _also_ made me angry; quite a bit more, obviously. Now, do as I say and guard the remains.”

“They’re all dead?” A fourth asked. Were they really going to take turns?

“No, of course not,” Sherlock scoffed, “I’m not utterly merciless.”

Sherlock waited until they relaxed a bit, “Most of them are woodland creatures.”

Sherlock breezed past them while they stood there shaking in their boots and gaping. One was laughing a bit as though he hoped it was a joke, but he sobered when the other’s pushed him towards the ‘scene’. Cowards. There was a reason his father only trusted certain guards, and those specific guards would be his first problem. Siger’s advisors would bend with the wind, so Sherlock didn’t worry about them. He marched straight to his room and dug out his focus before turning and returning to the group of animals and Siger’s body. As he’d suspected the guards were gone, likely telling everyone they saw about what had happened. Sherlock was prepared for that, the fear would keep them under control.

“Now then, we’ll just march you lot back to the throne room. For now you’ll have to be my little show of force. We can’t let our enemies think Camelot is weakened. Once I have you lot changed back I will, of course, abdicate the throne. I certainly don’t want it. We’ll chalk it up to a temper tantrum and say whichever of you takes the throne has a rein on me.”

Sherlock gestured with his focus and the stones reformed to block up the walls that had been turned into dust. That was another relief: if one could be turned back than the other likely could. His rage-Magic was not permanent. Sherlock turned and led the others back to the throne room. Oh his way there several dozen guards led by four knights showed up with weapons drawn, but they seemed hesitant to attack him. Sherlock made their decision for them by gesturing strongly with his focus and ordering the rocks to form a pillared cage before and behind them in the hall, it left a gaping hole in the floor before and behind, but that only served to contain them more.

“Were you going somewhere with those drawn weapons?” Sherlock asked. Several guards threw them down, but the rest stood nervously with swords still drawn. The four knights were all still bravely standing at the ready.

“Your King is dead,” Sherlock stated, then reached down into the castle and shouted a complicated order. The King’s naked body traveled through the floors and walls and appeared before them, the stone shifting to accommodate him. Sherlock noted with some interest that the bloodstain remained behind, which he thought curious since his command might have included all traces of blood being that he had ordered Siger (and his crown) brought to this point and the blood was his.

The knights looked pale and unsure of themselves. The remaining guards dropped their weapons and one poor sod fainted.

“This could be a trick,” Sir Evans stated.

Sherlock stepped forward and removed Siger’s crown from his naked body.

“The correct response,” Sherlock informed, and raised his focus in front of him as he placed the crown on his head, “Is ‘Long live the King’. Shall we try it again? _Ahem_. The King is dead.”

“Long live the king!”

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock hated the throne the second he sat on it; it was uncomfortable and a symbol of a caste system he now realized was grotesquely flawed. He was not fit to rule, though he certainly had the brains and the inherent power for the job, he had not the charisma, the ability to be inoffensive and politically savvy, the _attention span_. Sherlock sat himself down, constructed a pen of stone around the ‘animals’, helped John to settle himself on the arm of the throne, and promptly ordered a guard to bring in the advisors.

Once the five men and one woman arrived they all nervously bowed down to him.

“May we ask what has happened to your father and brothers?” Lord Gatiss asked.

“If you need to ask that after over an hour of rumors running wild, then perhaps I don’t need you as advisors,” Sherlock replied with a quirked eyebrow.

“The Prince we know would not commit the atrocities that we have been told,” Duke Cumberbatch stated.

“I see, and what, pray tell, are my crimes?”

Silence and nervous shuffling. Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes in frustration: “Duke Cumberbatch, _if you please_.”

“Sire… we were told you slaughtered the king after he tried to sexually assault you, demolished a wing of the castle, murdered hundreds of peasants and stored them to be… _consumed…_ ordered the kitchen staff to prepare them for dinner, and turned the royal family into toads.”

“Hmm, the toads part is _almost_ right, the royal family is there to your left along with two knights and two guards. Oh, and the patricide, that’s correct as well.”

Silence and alarm.

“Oh, and I may have inadvertently destroyed a few walls, but honestly, what’s a wall or two in a castle this big, hm?” Sherlock gave them a smile full of false cheer.

“Hardly anything, I suppose,” Duke Cumberbatch said with remarkable calm, “Am I to take it then, that we will _not_ be cannibalizing the villagers?”

“No, I think not. The bodies the guards saw were poor souls who had been horded by my father in an attempt to bring forth an undead army. I, of course, am opposed to such a horrific act. There are times of desperation, of course, but then there is committing act of barbarism. Such actions would not be seen by future generations as heroic, but as an atrocity and cowardice. Our people do not deserve to be used thusly. Do you agree?”

“Yes, Sire,” Many replied, and he caught no naysayers.

“Then we have some new policy to discuss, but first: my father’s remains. You will find them behind the throne I sit upon. The top half is to be pickled and sent to King Olaf in a barrel. The missive shall read as thus: _To my ally, my regards and a request that we meet to negotiate further peace. King Sherlock Pendragon of Camelot, Son of Siger._ The lower half is to be sent to King Moriarty in the same state. His letter shall read: _I accept your challenge and offer you a reward for your cleverness in the less useful parts of my father, as I understand you too employ a necromancer. May we meet someday as equals, with equally living armies._ _King Sherlock Pendragon, son of Siger.”_

The men nodded at his statements and a page was sent for to carry out his orders. A knight would accompany each barrel to their location.

“Now then,” Sherlock replied cheerfully, “How to harness these rumors. Are they good as they are? Or will they cause us grief?”

“Grief, I should think, my Lord,” Duke Martin replied, “That bit about cannibalizing farmers is a bit not good.”

“Then we’ll have to get them situated. Sound the bells for a gathering in the square. A speech is the quickest way to straighten these things out, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, Majesty, but what will you tell them?” Lord Gatiss asked.

“Why, the truth, of course? I much prefer it to fiction, don’t you?”

Of course, he did no such thing. Sherlock left out the part where it had been an accident and painted himself as a savior stopping a war between the father and the three brothers. He told the people he would get the castle situated and then choose one of his brothers to take the throne. He invited the people who could do so to submit requests for policy changes, but warned that lowering taxes might not be possible in light of the war.

“It is my fervent hope, however, that this war shall not last to see another generation.”

Well, it was nice to be cheered for a change.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock hardly dared to sleep that night; in fact he couldn’t if he’d wanted to. He was certain an assassination would occur the moment his candles were blown out. Instead he moved his new animal ‘friends’ into his rooms with him and started riffling through his notes and books to search for a way to reverse the effects of his Magical outburst.

He had known many historical Mages to place curses on humans, transforming them into animals, but to do so out of a fit of pique… Sherlock had no idea how to reverse it other than death. John fluttered down his arm and crawled about on the table, searching for something and looking bewildered. After a moment he seemed to get frustrated and nearly upended an inkwell.

“Come now, John, I’m trying to find a way to change you back. You can help by being still,” Sherlock scolded, scooping him up and pressing him upside-down to his chest.

John seemed to snuggle in so Sherlock left him to it. He glanced over once to see the red fox giving him an odd look.

“Yes, Mycroft, I’m working on it,” Sherlock sighed, “I won’t leave you like that forever if I can help it, though it is a big improvement on Sherrinford.”

The boar oinked indignantly.

“Joking, brother, joking,” Sherlock sighed.

He was searching for another hour before he found the spell he wanted. John had shifted about and crawled up to his shoulder, apparently not bothered by being right side up the way fruit bats were. He riffled into Sherlock’s shirt, and he chuckled as he was tickled a bit.

“John, don’t. As charming as you are in any form, I have no interest in bestiality.”

John abandoned that avenue and climbed up to snuggle against the side of his neck, his claws uncomfortable but not digging in. He nuzzled behind Sherlock’s ear and then drew still so Sherlock went back to his task. He was reading over the ritual for transforming a human into an animal. The same ritual – with a few modifications – should reverse it.

“We’re going to need lots of clay,” Sherlock mused to himself, then felt an uncomfortable itch on his neck.

Sherlock reached up to scratch and encountered bat head… vampire bat head… Sherlock stilled and focused on what he was feeling. There wasn’t much sensation, but John was definitely lapping at a spot just behind and below his hear. Sherlock ignored the first impulse to swat at him – that was just biology talking and he had better control over his body than that. He waited for John to finish and then checked the area in a reflective surface. The substance in his saliva used to promote blood flow had left Sherlock bleeding, though not profusely.

“Well, I hope you’re full. I suppose earlier you were trying to tell me you were hungry. Are the rest of you?”

Sherlock watched them all nod and sighed, “Typical.”

He rose and ordered one of the guards outside his room to send up a tray of bread, cheese, and cold meats, as well as tea for himself and a few trays to water the beasts. He figured that would be easiest and they could all eat as they pleased. He also ordered the guard to find someone with clay for him.

“I’ll need a substantial amount. A potter from the villages would be the best bet. Make sure he’s well paid from the Kings… _my_ coffers.”

The food came first, of course, and at John’s insistence (he kept pushing at the plate, though he was too small to move it) he ate a bit himself. He drank his tea and contemplated the procedure, jotting down notes to decide the right modifications to the ritual. When the clay finally showed up – great big wheelbarrows full of it from three different potters – Sherlock had them set up in the laboratory. He shaped the clay into two average sized, roughly humanoid, shapes. They need not be perfect or an actual representation of the person in mind.

Now the task at hand was to try it on someone first. He wasn’t really planning on changing the guards back – they would be a liability – but he also didn’t want to start on someone he rather liked just in case something went wrong. He settled on Sally and shooed the peacock into the laboratory. He had her sit on the clay and then started the chant he’d written for the ritual. After a few minutes a white light suffused them, filled with shimmering colors as the opal in his focus came to life for what was probably only the tenth time in his life. He rarely used this ability, as it was so very difficult, much as John did not use his Necromancy unless he had to.

He nearly dropped to the floor with exhaustion, but he stoically kept himself upright. Showing weakness in front of Donovan was a _bad_ idea. Donovan stood before him, defiant and proud despite her nudity, and scowled at him furiously. The clay figure was gone.

“Well, hop to it. Start making more. You can fetch some clothing first, if you’d like. I’m sure you won’t object to wearing some of mine under the circumstances.”

“You want _me_ to make little… golems!”

“Yes, I do. Obey your king or I’ll turn you into something less pretty than a peacock.”

“I don’t think you can,” She stated, head held high, “That was a mistake before, and you look fit to drop now.”

“I _look_ like one of your betters, and you will obey me or suffer the consequences. Get. To. Work. I want everyone changed by morning.”

There was no way that was happening. Sherlock needed to sleep. Now. He also needed someone trustworthy at his side. John was his first choice, but he knew the smarter option was Lestrade. Lestrade would be loyal and could handle Donovan, as John could not: she hated him too much because of Anderson. Sherlock went out to fetch the silver fox but found him and the red one _gone_. He searched a moment and then found the two behind his curtains.

“I beg your pardon,” Sherlock stated the moment he saw what they were up to. He closed the curtains again and looked down at his chest where John was currently blinking up at him, “I’ll never be able to unsee that.”

John shook with apparent laughter and Sherlock shuddered and waited for the two to emerge, the grey fox looking nervous and flustered while the red looked rather proud of himself. Of course, Mycroft _always_ looked proud of himself.

“First time?” Sherlock mocked, and Mycroft made a rather convincing huffing noise for a fox, “No? Pity. I’d rather be amused if you lost your virginity to a randy silver fox behind a curtain. Lestrade, ready to be turned back?”

Lestrade yipped and hurried forward. Sherlock caught his scruff and pulled him close.

“I’m going to collapse after this. I need you to see to it Donovan is kept from causing mischief. I need more clay people made to transform the rest, but I’ll be too weak. Get John and myself to the bed and let me rest. Understood?”

Lestrade nodded when he was released.

“I have your word as a knight that you will not betray me?” Sherlock asked.

Lestrade nodded again and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. He could trust Lestrade’s word. He wouldn’t betray it.

On the way back into the lab Donovan made an attempt to brain him with a cauldron, but John fluttered into her face and scared her backwards. She fell ass over tits and Sherlock laughed at her shamelessly.

“Serves you right. Do behave yourself for a moment. If you’d knocked my skull in who would change the rest back? A bit of common sense if you please.”

Sherlock repeated the ritual with Lestrade and smiled in relief as the man stood up. Then he promptly fainted away.

[CHAPTER TEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/27946.html)


	10. vincentmeoblinn | The Mage's Slave ch 10

WARNING: There is some very easily skippable bestiality in this chapter. If you don’t want to read it just look for the ‘B’ and skip till you see the next ‘B’. It’s a total of one paragraph long.

 

Sherlock awoke to a soft fluttering caress on his cheek. He could smell John nearby, but had no time to indulge in a fantasy of the man gently touching his face while he slept; his mind was too active for that and immediately supplied him with the knowledge of what was happening. Sherlock shuddered, waited for John to finish his breakfast, and then opened his eyes when his lover-turned-bat walked down his torso. It was rather amusing to see him walking on legs and wing joints, but became far more when the creature turned to face him revealing an erection poking out of the fur that covered his little body.

“Well that looks a bit awkward,” Sherlock chuckled, “Is it mating season? First Lestrade and Mycroft, now you.”

B

Sherlock was at a loss as to what to do. On one hand he’d rather not leave John distressed now that they’d reached a rather interesting understanding, but on the other hand this was a _bat._ He waffled back and forth a moment then supplied his hand for the creature to rut against. John wrapped his little wings around Sherlock’s hand and pressed his dick between his closed middle and ring fingers. A few eager thrusts and he felt a bit of moisture before the creature fluttered off, landing on his chest and clinging to his shirt. Sherlock glanced in disgust at his hand, wiped it on the duvet, and then took note that he was still in yesterday’s clothes. He supposed he should be grateful Lestrade had kept his word and not expect overmuch.

B

Sherlock arose to find a meal spread out and Sally and Lestrade nowhere in sight. He checked the food for poison, found it clean of it, then opened his chamber doors to find out who had dared to set foot in them while he slept. He found Lestrade and Sally guarding his doors, Sally’s face twitched at the sight of the bat on Sherlock’s shoulder, but she was otherwise disciplined.

“You two have been up this whole time?”

Nods.

“Good. I’m going to eat to maintain my energy and then I’ll be transforming Mycroft and John back in one go. You will remain here.”

Nods.

“Any news?”

“A small riot in town, but the guards broke it up. Some people have packed up and fled in the night.”

“What? Why?” Sherlock asked, utterly baffled.

“They’re afraid of having a Mage for a king,” Sally supplied coldly.

“Idiots,” Sherlock accused before slamming his door shut.

Sherlock walked into the lab and motioned for Mycroft to follow. It didn’t take long this time for him to eat and then prep for the ceremony that would release John and Mycroft. He sagged to the floor when it was done, his stomach threatening to heave up his breakfast. John’s scent and arms enveloped him and he leaned into him thankfully.

“You’ve made quite a mess of things, Sherlock, but I suppose it’s still better than father’s idea. Our country would have been assaulted from all sides had we used such a brutal military tactic as taking our enemy out with defiled dead soldiers: and our own people as well! We would have had no support, even from within the kingdom.”

“I’m glad you see reason,” Sherlock muttered, closing his eyes and letting himself go limp against John.

John scooped him up into a bridal carry and Mycroft apparently opened the door for them.

“I’m going to go and make a show of having repressed you and taken over the throne. I assume since you freed me first you’ve decided I’m to be successor?”

Sherlock nodded weakly. He wanted to give an account of why, but he was simply too weak and Mycroft likely understood his reasons. Apparently Sherrinford did _not_ because he let out a squeal of outrage and charged Mycroft with the apparent intention of goring him. Mycroft barely ducked out of the way in time and Sherrinford slammed headfirst into the wall, knocking a hanging shield down upon his head. Lestrade barged in to see what the commotion was and was just in time to see a very naked Mycroft checking to see if Sherrinford was still alive.

“Concussed, the fool. Will you be turning him back?”

“Eventually,” Sherlock sighed.

“Very well. Lestrade find a servant or two; have someone fetch me some clothes and get Sherrinford to a veterinarian.”

“That won’t be necessary, Sire,” John spoke up, “I can heal him.”

Mycroft paused, glancing at Sherlock for confirmation and then stepped aside. John fetched his knife and put on a pair of trousers for modesty sake. He knelt by the boar, sliced his finger open with the knife and then pressed his finger to the bump forming on the boar’s head while singing softly as though to himself. It shrank down to nothing and Sherrinford struggled to his hooves, snorting indignantly.

“I advise you not to try that again, eh? Doctor’s orders,” John smiled.

Sherlock wanted to finish the discussion he’d been having with Mycroft, but the room was getting dark and fuzzy.

XXXXXXXX

Sherlock was drifting in and out of consciousness, his mind and body exhausted in a way he’d never felt before. He vaguely remembered a conversation with Mycroft and another with John, but it was all a blur. Now he could feel something warm and wet running over his body and it took a bit to realize it was a flannel. John. John was back to his normal duties and was bathing him. He’d then bathe himself and Sherlock would _miss_ it because he was barely conscious. Sure enough the next time he was able to be aware of his surroundings he could hear splashing. The time after that he woke to feel warm arms wrapped around him and patterned breathing against his shoulder. John was sleeping with Sherlock wrapped tightly in his arms, arrogantly placing himself as the ‘big spoon’. Sherlock wanted to tell him it _couldn’t_ be that way, but he drifted off again.

Sherlock woke the next morning to the feel of a hard member rutting gently between his arsecheeks. John’s breath was harsh against his neck and the slave was holding him so tightly it was almost painful.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, and the man moaned hungrily. Sherlock realized he must have used oil because John was sliding between his orbs with ease and no chaffing at all.

Sherlock wanted John inside him. He wanted him deep inside him touching that spot he’d heard whispers of; the one that made men see stars behind their closed eyelids and crave a hard rod in their arse. John clearly wanted that too, but for now he was respecting Sherlock’s convalescence and merely reached around to jerk him steadily as Sherlock leaned his head back and moaned his pleasure. He was used to being satisfied on a daily basis of late, and having gone two days without even John’s proper presence nearby had been excruciating.

_He’s not just a slave to me. This is bad. Very bad._

John’s thrusts became erratic and his hand began to jerk Sherlock faster and out of sync with his hip movements. John was close to orgasm and Sherlock found himself holding his breath in anticipation.

“May I come, master?” John panted against his ear, his hot breath stirring Sherlock’s curls.

Sherlock couldn’t release his breath, couldn’t regain control of his body. He nodded his head frantically as his own pleasure coiled tight as a bowstring in his belly. John cried out softly as he came hard between them, his hips stilling and simply pressing close. He managed to mostly keep his hand moving and now took up renewed vigor. Sherlock was still holding his breath and it was beginning to affect his hearing and sight. John finally cottoned on to what he was doing.

“Sherlock! Breath!”

Sherlock expelled the air he’d held and gasped in a fresh breath… and came harder than he ever had in his life. Suddenly he was panting and screaming and writhing on the bed and John moaned and held him tightly as wave after wave of pleasure exploded inside of him. Sherlock lay still and practically sobbing once he regained control of his own body. John had a leg thrown over him and both arms around him as though to restrain him. Had he been thrashing that much? The bed was a mess.

“That was… amazing,” John whispered.

“You’re… John.”

John chuckled, “Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re…” Sherlock pulled away, awkward and uncomfortable. He hurried to the bowl of water kept by the fireplace, grabbed a flannel, and began scrubbing the mess off both sides of his body.

“Here, I’m supposed to do that,” John scolded, leaving the warmth of the bed and hurrying to his side.

They knelt there, trembling in front of the fireplace and using the cold (despite it’s location) water to wash up. Sherlock trembled from more than the cold. He wasn’t used to sentiment. He hadn’t felt it when he’d killed his father. He hadn’t felt it when he’d seen the man’s corpse. He hadn’t felt it at the thought of doing something despicable to his brothers while they were in animal form. Why should he feel it now?

“My father offered you freedom,” Sherlock finally explained as John laid a blanket around his shoulders, “I shan’t do the same. I’m greedy and selfish and self-centered. I’m going to keep you a slave for the rest of your life no matter how much good you do and no matter how you behave.”

There was silence a moment, then John slipped beneath the thick covers with Sherlock and they huddled there, shivering and watching the fire as John stoked it to bring it higher and added another log.

“I love you,” John informed him calmly, “I don’t know why I do, because you’re insufferable and ignorant…”

“I am a genius!”

“You’re an idiot. You’re a brilliant, genius, idiot.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“You love me, then?” Sherlock asked, shocked by the sentiment.

“Yes. I think I might have been taken with you from the start.”

“Well, I’m very attractive… physiologically.”

“Yes, you are that, but there was more to it than that. There’s something about you that… I’m no good at this,” John sighed.

“Nor am I.”

“Then let’s drop it, yeah?”

“Yes.”

Eventually they rose and began their day, Sherlock reporting to court as though he hadn’t temporarily ruled the kingdom. Mycroft taunted Sherlock that he’d been added to the history books as the shortest term in the land and Sherlock rolled his eyes and toasted his new king. He was still feeling weak and tired so he excused himself early, leaning heavily on John as the slave led him from the throne room.

“You’ll wait to change Prince Sherrinford back, yes? I don’t think you can handle this again,” John pleaded.

“I suppose you’re going to tell me that if I ate regularly…”

“Yes, that would help, but since we can’t alter the past I’m going to beg you to wait until you’re fully recovered.”

“Mmm.”

Sherlock spent his time in the lab running experiments that required little movement, most of which John carried out as he hovered relentlessly over his master’s shoulder. A servant showed up at one point with a scroll from Mycroft which read as a detailed report that the kingdom was no longer in an uproar, King Olaf had arrived and renewed his allegiance to the kingdom and pledge it to Mycroft, Moriarty had moved troops forward en masse but then retreated right after Mycroft took the throne, and Mycroft had declared a holiday for tomorrow which would include a festival.

“A festival,” Sherlock sighed, “I’ll be required to attend, of course. Pandering to the new king.”

“I love festivals,” John chirped.

“We need to renew that ‘don’t speak unless you’re spoken to’ bit.”

“Sorry, Sire,” John apologized, bending low.

“No, don’t. I didn’t mean it. I… take me to bed. I want… I want _you_.”

Sherlock turned on the bench so John could scoop him up and carry him back to bed where they slowly stripped each other’s clothes off, kissing gently as they went. Sherlock was nervous and shy while John was slow and almost tender; it only made things more difficult for Sherlock. John explored Sherlock’s body with growing intensity, his arms turning from soft caresses to firm, strong, motions. Sherlock’s arousal began to grow and John noticed and swallowed his half-mast cock down, lathing the tip with his tongue. Sherlock quickly hardened and John leaned back and firmly spread his legs.

Sherlock instantly went from hesitant to panting. John smirked at him; his blue eyes dark with arousal, and Sherlock moaned as he pressed the prince’s leg back and oil was dripped between his cheeks. A finger soon prodded his entrance and Sherlock whimpered, arching into the stretching feeling. John stroked the walls of his body a moment and then added a second finger, curling them until Sherlock shouted in surprise and pleasure.

“Benefits to having a healer for a lover,” John teased, licking at Sherlock’s ear as he stroked that spot again.

Sherlock was grateful that he’d come earlier that morning or he’d have humiliated himself by now. He whimpered and wriggled on John’s fingers, gasping as he added a third. Sherlock knew to expect the burn and focused instead on the feeling of _fullness_. This was what he’d been craving, a sense of completion that he never had with normal interactions with people on a daily basis. The man pumped and stretched his fingers until Sherlock was half-mad with want, tossing his head from side to side as he lay moaning and growling on the bed.

“You sound so fucking sexy,” John panted, and then slipped his fingers free.

Sherlock stilled, wondering what he’d done to stop the pleasure, but then recalled John wanted to put something _else_ inside him. Sherlock whimpered and lifted his head to see John stroking his slicked up cock and staring hungrily down at Sherlock’s gaping entrance. When he pressed the tip of his cock against it Sherlock almost panicked and fled, but held himself still instead as John lifted one thigh and pressed the spongy head inside.

Sherlock was panting, close to hyperventilating, and John paused to soothe him, stroking his sides and whispering for him to calm his breathing. When he did, the slow press inside continued until Sherlock found himself dizzyingly full. He wrapped his arms around John’s neck and pressed his head back in the bed as he tried to fathom that he was finally, _finally_ being taken the way he so often fantasized about. He wasn’t sure it lived up to the fantasies yet, but if John would just _move_.

John held still a moment, taking steadying breaths, and then gently asked Sherlock if he was ready. Sherlock nodded, unable to properly speak, and then grunted as John pulled halfway out and then slid back home again. Another half thrust and Sherlock thought he’d go mad.

“I’m not made of _glass_.”

John smirked and sped up his motions, pulling out further and sliding home with a sharp jab to Sherlock’s prostate that had him writhing and moaning in bliss. Sherlock’s pleasure was building, heat coiling in his abdomen as the muscles tensed and the pressure built. He was gasping and chanting John’s name like a mantra while the man stared down at him with eyes wide and lips parted as he panted in apparent shock.

“You really love this!” John gasped.

Sherlock turned his head away in shame, but John put a hand to his cheek, stilling his motions in order to force Sherlock to look at him again.

“There’s no shame in this. Sherlock… would you respect a woman less? No?”

Sherlock shook his head, meeting John’s eyes and silently pleading with him to continue. He’d been so _close_ and he needed this; his wicked fantasy fulfilled.

“No. John. Don’t make me beg!”

“Never,” John breathed, and pumped his hips at the same moment he grasped Sherlock’s member and began to stroke him in time, “Those lips aren’t made for begging. They’re made for so much else, but never that.”

Sherlock’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and his hips twitched feebly as he chased his orgasm down once more. John moaned softly and Sherlock felt his thrusts become sharper as he approached his own end.

“You’re so tight! Oh, fuck, Sherlock!!” John cried out and came hard inside Sherlock’s trembling body.

Sherlock gasped at the sensation of being filled as John twitched and gave a few shallow thrusts. He’d managed to keep his hand going and Sherlock was right on the edge, gasping and clenching his legs around John’s waist to keep him inside of him until he could come as well. He _needed_ this full feeling, this beautiful sense of completion.

“Sherlock!” John gasped, over sensitive and trying to bring Sherlock off.

He was still mostly hard and he managed to rub his cock against Sherlock’s prostate one more time. It was exactly what Sherlock needed and the prince cried out and came across his chest and abdomen, moaning as John stroked his prostate again to keep him emptying. Sherlock went limp and John slowly slid free, pressing kisses to Sherlock’s face before standing and fetching a flannel. He gently washed Sherlock’s body, murmuring about how beautiful he was and how good he’d made John feel.

Sherlock’s mind was in turmoil. He had betrayed himself and John; himself by allowing this abhorrent sex act, and John by refusing him the freedom and title that would have made it acceptable. Why? He couldn’t give up the control, of course. He needed to be in control of every aspect of John’s life, of his very freedom, in order to feel confident enough to touch him or let himself be touched. Though others had approached him Sherlock had only ever had sex with slaves.

“This isn’t working for you, is it?” John asked with his voice filled with worry.

Sherlock met his eyes, knowing now was a time for honestly.

“No.”

“Why? What’s so wrong about bottoming? Yes, I’ve got a thing against it, but you’ve clearly got a thing _for_ it. This should work!”

“It would, if I were not a prince and you a slave.”

“That can be changed,” John stated, and Sherlock winced at the hope in his eyes.

“It never will be, John. I will not give up ownership of you. I _need_ it. More than I need this. We’ll adjust.”

John sat back, looking hurt and angry and then suddenly stilled.

“There’s another option.”

“Yes, you could learn to take it and me to give it,” Sherlock groused.

“ _Besides_ that.”

Sherlock looked up at his hopeful, excited face and stilled: “I’m listening.”

“I could be your slave, but only _your_ slave, not _a_ slave.”

“I don’t follow.”

“It’s a lifestyle: complete voluntary submission. You get me that title and my freedom, but I remain your slave in name only. No one can disapprove and we can do as we please in the privacy of your chambers. If you want to order me to fuck you into the mattress, you can.”

“You would leave,” Sherlock scoffed, “You expect me to just hand you freedom, land, title, and… what? Ask you to stick around to be bullied by me? And expect you to because we have some sort of gentleman’s agreement?”

“Did my words earlier mean so little?” John asked, looking dismayed.

“What? That you love me? Why do you think I intend to keep you?” Sherlock snarled possessively.

“You can trust me. I won’t leave you,” John promised earnestly.

“Everyone leaves,” Sherlock snapped, “Go fetch me food.”

“Sherlock…”

“That was an order _slave!_ Fetch. Me. Food. And do it _silently_.”

John stood up from where he’d been kneeling on the bed and bowed low. He began to dress but Sherlock stopped him.

“I didn’t give you permission to dress,” Sherlock informed him coldly, “Drop the clothes and fetch me my food _naked_.”

John dropped the things in his hands; turned to face Sherlock, bowed low, and left the room with a sad look on his face and an unhealthy amount of gooseflesh. Sherlock pulled a pillow over his face and swore into it angrily; he just wasn’t sure whom he was angrier with, himself or John for not telling him to piss off.

XXXXXXXXX

The look on Mycroft’s face when he saw John hurrying down the hall, stark naked with a tray of steaming food, was quite possibly worth the humiliation of having to fetch Sherlock’s food while naked. John had just returned from the kitchen where he’d been treated to everything from amused titters to disgust to outright lust. He had a bowl of hot stew and a roll of bread on a tray for Sherlock. The new king was apparently touring the halls and making sure _good_ rumors were spread about him, otherwise he’d never be caught dead in the servant’s section of the castle.

“John, isn’t it? What on earth are you doing walking around without clothing on?”

“Sherlock ordered me to fetch him food,” John replied while bowing low and trying not to spill said food.

“Naked?” The man scoffed.

“Yes.”

Mycroft looked first bewildered and then alarmed: “I suppose you committed some offense?”

“Apparently.”

“What offense might that be?”

“I’m too ignorant to understand the mind of my master, the prince,” John decided was the safest reply.

“You mean you’re too smart to let me in on how mad he’s becoming. His obsession with you is alarming. Even the servants have noted it. They’re spreading the most ridiculous rumors, especially since you’re capable of Life Magic as the Great Merlin was. Should we be expecting a happy announcement by the end of the week?”

“I… I don’t follow, Sire,” John replied honestly.

“No, I don’t suppose you do. Would you like your freedom, John?”

John felt that momentary lift of excitement and then a sudden drop that made him think of the wolf from Little Red Riding Hood. The part where he had stones in his belly and toppled into the river when leaning down to drink.

“No, sire. I’m content with my lot in life.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m… I’m content as I ever shall be.”

“Meaning the one thing you want the most you shall never have, and you are correct in your assumption. Sherlock isn’t capable of love. His mind is damaged, much as my father’s was. His mother- dear sweet thing, she stays in her own wing for the most part- recognized it long ago. She took great pains to divert Sherlock down a path of mental intrigue that would not lead to him becoming a serial killer. It was she who insisted he take up studying crimes and a multitude of sciences. She was so proud of him for a time… until he got his first slave.”

“Sire?” John asked in confusion.

“Sherlock raped the man. Violently. He required medical care afterward.”

John felt himself go cold and swallowed strongly at the lump that had formed in his throat.

“Oh, Sherlock claimed ignorance, of course,” King Mycroft continued, “He behaved as though he were sorry, but his mother and I saw the truth. He was sorry to have been caught, perhaps sorry that his slave was out of commission for a while, but not to have committed the act.”

“I… No. No, I don’t believe you. He hates it when people are ill done. That woman who was tricked by her father-in-law…”

“He loves the _mystery,_ John. He then behaves as he thinks others wish him to. He puts a mask on and says ‘oh, you poor thing’ when really he’s wondering why the sodding hell she doesn’t suck it up and get over it. You’ve seen it, John, you must have done.”

John nodded miserably. He’d seen the mask, seen the way Sherlock could turn off his emotions, but he always imagined the man had learned to do so due to a cruel upbringing by his father. He’d seen abused children do much the same; it was a defense mechanism. However, Mycroft’s explanation made sense, too. A terrifying kind of sense that left John feeling as though he might be sick on the floor.

“I love him,” John replied, and then looked away in horror as he realized what he’d said. Sherlock had been quite clear in that John _wasn’t_ to be anything more than a slave.

“I know,” Mycroft stated, his voice lacking the comfort one might have heard from a friend, “Which is why I am required to act in the stead of Sherlock’s mummy since she rarely intervenes on his behalf anymore.”

“Sire?”

“Forgive me, John, but I must do what will keep Sherlock _sane_ for as long as possible, and right now you are standing in the way of that.”

John wanted to flee. He wanted to drop the food and run. Every instinct in his body was telling him this man was deadly, yet he couldn’t bring himself to act upon it. He stood stock still and looked the man straight in the eyes and silently _dared_ him to end his misery.

“You don’t seem very frightened,” Mycroft noted.

“You don’t seem very frightening,” John replied, his slave demeaner so far gone as to have been a mere dream.

“Suicidal, perhaps, but I suppose that is the bravery of the soldier. You will fight for what you believe in until the bitter end. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you agree?”

John smiled coldly at the king, knowing this was the end of it. The hall was filled with guards. He could take a few out, but he had no reason to. He certainly had no reason to hurt king Mycroft; the man could only be good for this kingdom and the surrounding realms. Instead he stood his ground and passed the tray of food off to a servant when one was called forward.

“Sherlock will get that?”

“Eventually, yes,” Mycroft nodded as the servant left.

“Good. He never eats enough.”

“No, he does not,” Mycroft sighed, “Come along, John. No need to keep you in these drafty halls any longer than necessary.”

[CHAPTER ELEVEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/28318.html)


	11. vincentmeoblinn | The Mage's Slave Ch 11

John was taking far too long. In fact, he was long overdue and Sherlock was wondering if the poor man had collapsed from hypothermia due to his angry order. He had just risen with the intention of seeking him out when his chamber doors opened without introduction and Mycroft stepped in.

“He won’t be coming back, Sherlock,” Mycroft snapped, and Sherlock sank back down onto the bed. A servant followed him in, placed a cold tray of stew down, and quickly left.

_Of course he won’t. I crossed that line again; that invisible line that I never seem to see until it’s well and truly behind me._

“He’s… unharmed?”

“No thanks to you. My gods, it’s freezing! The kitchens are in the draftiest part of the castle! If I hadn’t stumbled across him while making my presence known in the halls… Well, don’t just sit there pretending to be remorseful _say something!”_

“What have you done with him?”

“Given him his due seeing as he’s saved your life so many times and been given nothing but abuse in return! A title and land, which he is on his way to inspect with a sizable purse, a servant, a horse and carriage, and two barrels of food.”

“How far?”

“Far enough to keep you from him!”

Sherlock meant to keep his face blank, but his devastation must have shown because Mycroft sighed, rubbed his face, and changed his tone of voice completely.

“He’s down on the old haunted Baker Mill we used to dare each other to go into as children. He’s got the whole property: the wheat field, mill, silo, and stone house. He’ll need to work the field, mill, or something along those lines to support himself, but being as he’s a skilled healer I imagine he’ll just turn the fields into an herb field and start an apothecary or leech or whatever the commoners call it.”

“Clinic, I believe; at least the ones that employ actual physicians are called such.”

“Why, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, leaning against the door and looking baffled, “Anyone with eyes can see he loves you. All you had to do was treat him well and he’d have stayed.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Don’t give me that. I was raised the same as you were and I know not to do something _harmful_ to Gregory!”

“You wouldn’t understand. I _need_ to control him! He was getting defiant, starting to ask for equality…”

“He asked me not to, Sherlock. He asked me _not_ to free him,” Mycroft stated softly.

Sherlock stared at him in shock, “Then why did you?”

“Because you’d have killed him if I hadn’t and I think it would have destroyed you. You’re cold and unfeeling, frighteningly so, but there is something about him that I can see you are drawn to. I’d rather him alive and safe from you than dead at your feet. At least then all I’ll have to contend with is your petulant sulking!”

Mycroft turned to leave and Sherlock sat quietly in his bed wondering what to do now. He could get another slave, but he didn’t _want_ another slave. Nor did he want to be as utterly alone and cold as he had been while John had been a bat. He wanted his John back.

“I suppose I could always turn him into a bat again,” Sherlock sighed to the skull on the door.

He half expected to hear John comment on that, but Sherlock’s rooms were utterly silent. He headed out into the halls and wandered till he found a servant and ordered them to bring him a fresh dinner. He had to maintain his strength in order to turn Sherrinford back, and the sooner he managed that the sooner there would be one less boar in his room. He picked at the food miserably, choking it down and wishing he had John there to nag him to eat. Having someone care always made him feel better, and he’d just been getting used to that. Sometimes he missed the days when Mummy had cared, but then she had simply forgotten about him and he’d had no indication why. He thought it was because he’d gotten a slave and she felt her duties were over since someone else was caring for him. Then that slave had run away, as had the next, and the next…

Sherlock’s bed was frigid that night, even with the curtains closed and the fire built up. Sherlock curled into a ball in the middle of the bed and trembled himself to sleep. When he awoke it was to the sound of a commotion in the hall. Wrapping himself tightly in two cloaks to ward off the morning chill he gave the fire a halfhearted poke, tossed in a log, and then opened his chamber doors to find out what the problem was.

John was in the hallway arguing with the guards in front of his chamber. Apparently Mycroft had informed the entire castle that John was a free man, which meant he couldn’t just wander into Sherlock’s chambers in the wee hours of the morning.

“Ah, John, I assume you’re here for your possessions,” Sherlock intervened, the guards stepped aside and John entered his chambers.

John looked rather good in the clothes befitting his new station, and Sherlock shamelessly admired his physique before handing over a small satchel containing his dirk, a notebook he’d been writing in which Sherlock had given him, and his slave garb. They were his only possessions, and packing them last night had been pitiful; he’d been half tempted to give him some odd trinket to remember him by, but he’d stopped himself. John took the bag and stared at Sherlock awkwardly for a moment before taking a deep breath in preparation of some clearly rehearsed speech. Sherlock braced himself for the expected verbal abuse.

“The mill is a shambles inside, but the structure is sound. You can run your experiments in there.”

Sherlock blinked.

“Also, there’s more than one bedroom; four upstairs and two downstairs. You seem to prefer working with the people to solve their problems – yes, I know it’s only to amuse you – so I thought perhaps you’d like to make the downstairs into a sort of office. People can come to you for advice and me for healing.”

“And the upstairs bedrooms?”

“The upstairs bedroom and second room can be our living quarters. The other two you can do whatever you want with, I suppose you’ll need knights or guards or something. They’ll be warmer, too, because heat rises – you taught me that – and they’re smaller than here so we will have an easier time keeping them heated.”

“It will take me some time to get everything packed and moved.”

“It will take me some time to get everything cleaned out.”

“The ghosts?”

“Don’t exist.”

“Pity, then unless there was something else I was about to see Mycroft about a new slave so…”

“Don’t. Don’t do that. Damn it, I’m trying to give you what you _need_.”

“But not what I _want_.”

“I thought I was what you wanted,” John looked hurt, “I know you don’t feel like I do, but…”

“You… you are something I can never truly have.”

“Only because you keep _stopping_ us from being together properly.”

“I don’t know what you want for me. I’m not the hero of the people you think I am, I’m not the sinner turned saint you expect me to be, I’m not going to change into someone you can love without being hurt.”

“That’s fine.”

“That’s not fine. How is that even close to fine?” Sherlock questioned, his eyebrows furled in confusion.

“Because I love you the way you are, I just want you to stop fighting me. You’re being petulant; it’s only cute when you do it with other people.”

“I’ll need guards.”

“Can’t help you there. I suggest Mycroft.”

Sherlock took a moment to think, to study John and his face, to wonder what it would be like to _trust_ someone. He reached out and ran a hand over John’s cheek, noting the stubble. He’d left early, probably before dawn, and hadn’t paused to shave. Probably he’d spent the night shivering and alone much as Sherlock had. Probably he’d spent it awake and practicing what he would say. Sherlock loved him for it.

“Come and live with me,” John stated, not quite begging, “You hate the castle. You hate your brothers. I can make you happy.”

“I’m a prince, you know,” Sherlock scolded, “I can’t just shack up with someone.”

“Fine, come and marry me. I’ll make an honest man of you,” John smiled, giving Sherlock the opportunity to take it seriously or make a jest of it.

Sherlock failed to do either and instead fumbled awkwardly with some flowers in a vase on his dining table. He pulled one out and stared at it, wondering why he was so utterly useless at things like this. He wanted John. John was fit for the taking. John would give him a commitment in lieu of forced servitude. John was fixing something that Sherlock had broken, as John seemed apt to do.

“Yes.”

“Fantastic. When?”

“Now.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

“How?”

“Mycroft.”

“Ah.”

Sherlock took John’s hand and would have left then and there had John not insisted he dress first. He assisted him in doing so as though nothing had changed and they headed for the throne room, John automatically falling in step behind Sherlock. Sherlock stopped and waited until John got the hint and walked behind and to his right instead of directly behind him as a slave would.

“I still want that… lifestyle you mentioned,” Sherlock stated quietly, testing how far he could push John.

“Of course,” John replied, and left unspoken was that neither of them knew how to live with each other differently.

On the way to the throne room Sherlock noted a servant scrubbing some writing off the wall. It was unlikely the woman was educated enough to know what the coal graffiti said, but Sherlock barely glanced at what was left and knew.

_ The Final Problem _ .

[CHAPTER TWELVE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/28621.html)


	12. vincentmeoblinn | The Mage's Slave 12

“You’ve _got_ to be joking.”

King Mycroft Pendragon of Camelot stared in disgust at Lord John Watson of Baker’s Mill.

“I gave you freedom and a chance at a better life and you are just going to throw it away for… what? Good sex?”

“No. Well, yes, but not for that reason,” John replied with a subtle smirk.

“What on earth could tempt you to throw in your lot with my heartless brother? Didn’t I tell you yesterday that he would destroy you?”

“Begging your pardon your Majesty, but… I really don’t think that’s any of your business,” John stated softly with a polite smile pinned to his face.

“It could be.”

“It really couldn’t.”

“You misunderstand, Lord Watson, my concern is not for you. My concern is for my brother. You seem unaware of how… fragile he is.”

“I’m not _fragile_!” Sherlock snapped.

“I know _exactly_ what he is,” John stated firmly, but did not elaborate further.

“Brother,” Sherlock stated firmly, “Let’s be honest with each other. You’re attempting to control John. You know he’s powerful and an advantage. You want him happy and indebted to you.”

Mycroft smiled slowly, his eyes intent on piercing Sherlock, “Your point?”

“It’s unnecessary. I own John, whether or not the law agrees.”

“Sherlock, I do believe you’re _regressing_. Your arrogance is, frankly, alarming. You…”

“John, kneel,” Sherlock interrupted, his eyes still locked with his brother’s.

John’s knees hit the floor without question. Sherlock’s hand reached out and gently ran through the man’s hair. He could feel John’s head was turned towards him and wanted to see the look of adoration on his face, but he had to look confident in front of Mycroft so he didn’t look down.

“Very well,” Mycroft sighed in disgust, “Far be it for me to break up a pair of star-crossed lovers. What do you need?”

“A marriage certificate, my inheritance on my terms, a full guard and at least two knights.”

“Sam, fetch a priest,” Mycroft ordered a page, “Now, your inheritance? I assume we’re still counting you as the third son despite Sherrinford’s incarceration in the body of a pig.”

“The three farms and the town near the Mill; I will agree to 1% tithing.”

“Done.”

The priest arrived in short order and was immediately flustered by Sherlock’s demand for a wedding.

“Sire, I can not possibly provide you with a ceremony befitting a prince…”

“I want to be _married_ not _displayed_. Look at my future husband; do you see him kneeling there? _That_ is the only demonstration I am concerned with. Pronounce us married and get on with it.”

The man looked as though he might weep, but was quickly spitting out a ceremony. John remained on his knees throughout, his face showing a level of comfort and devotion it never had before; Sherlock was achingly hard. When the priest stuttered out for him to kiss the groom, Sherlock hauled him up by his collar and snogged him heatedly. Once released John sank back to his knees with blown pupils and a flushed face. His eyes were hungry and Sherlock’s knees felt weak with desire. He might have been on his knees, but he was still the powerful Mage Sherlock knew he could be. That he controlled someone with that level of passion and strength was intoxicating.

Sherlock knew Baker’s Mill wasn’t ready for habitation just yet so they retired to Sherlock’s rooms with amorous intent. Sherlock was nervous. True, they’d been intimate many times before but this felt different. He no longer had a slave forced to do his bidding; now he had a man willing to be his slave. The distinction was a bit intimidating, yet John looked happy and excited.

John followed Sherlock into the room and dropped to his knees again. Sherlock wasted no time in dropping his trousers and pushing his hard-on into John’s willing mouth. The man moaned enthusiastically and Sherlock shivered in desire, his breathe quickening. He moved his hips at a leisurely pace, determined to enjoy every second he had with John as though it were his last. John pulled back and set about worshiping Sherlock’s cock, pressing kisses along the vein on the bottom, tonguing the slit, rolling his balls in his hand and then pressing his face to them and nuzzling the sack. John then ran his tongue up the underside of Sherlock’s cock and then around the tip. Finally he swallowed Sherlock down and took a shot at deepthroating him. He gagged a bit, but kept trying until he had a rhythm going.

Sherlock could have watched him do that for _days_ but he wouldn’t last if it kept on much longer. He gently tugged on John’s hair and the man audibly popped off his prick.

“Strip yourself, then me,” Sherlock panted.

John hurriedly tugged off his own clothes before rising and stripping off Sherlock’s. His hands gently brushed and kissed exposed flesh as he did so. Sherlock shivered in the chill of the room, but the fire was roaring so activity would soon warm them up.

“On the bed. On your back,” Sherlock ordered.

Sherlock needed John to know, and needed to prove to himself, that he could top from the bottom; that he was still his master despite the fact he was practically drooling over John’s perfectly sized and shaped dick. Honestly, the man could stimulate his prostate without even trying. Sherlock got on the bed and straddled John backwards before tugging the side drawer open and pulling out the oil. He dripped it over his own fingers while he watched John’s erection flag as the man assumed Sherlock intended to bugger him. Instead he leaned forward and stroked his own entrance with one finger while John watched. Sherlock had a perfect view of John’s cock if he just glanced down, and he watched in excitement as John’s member firmed up again while Sherlock prepared himself.

“You’re beautiful,” John breathed. Sherlock shivered in anticipation.

Sherlock gripped John’s cock and slid himself down on it, moaning in bliss as the man stretched and filled him to perfection. John was gasping and gripping the blankets on either side of their bodies. He whimpered as Sherlock straightened himself up and sat there looking down at where their bodies joined. Sherlock was rock hard, his cock jumping a bit as he panted in John’s lap. Sherlock reached down while his body adjusted to the intrusion to stroke first John’s bollocks and then his own before lifting his hand up and stroking all the way to the tip of his own cock. He shivered in delight before taking himself in hand and stroking himself fast and hard.

“Sherlock!” John pleaded when he realized the man had no intention of moving.

“Mmm, John,” Sherlock breathed, feeling the man’s cock shift inside him. John had begun to squirm ever so subtly, “Don’t move. Don’t move a muscle.”

“Oh, gods!” John cried out in dismay, but fell still and simply panted.

Sherlock wished he’d decided to face John so he could see his face clearly, but he’d intended to be able to touch the man if he needed to keep him stimulated. This was the best position for that and a shift of his own legs allowed him to order John to spread his. He slipped his free hand down and fondled John’s bollocks, occasionally brushing his prostate externally; all to keep him hard while Sherlock pleasured himself. John was begging endlessly but Sherlock knew _exactly_ what he was doing and was unforgiving.

“Please! Sherlock! My prince! Master! Please! Oh, gods, this is _torture!_ I need you! Oh, fuck, oh please move!”

Sherlock moaned and sped up his hand, John’s pleas affecting him in ways he hadn’t anticipated. He was close when John’s voice suddenly turned deep and dark.

“I want to fuck you senseless while you come all over yourself,” Sherlock’s slave growled, “I want to make you _scream_.”

“Oh gods!” Sherlock cried out, and watched his come arch in front of him in pearly white jets, “Now! Bend me over and fuck me _now!”_

John didn’t hesitate. He pulled Sherlock against himself tightly and rolled, lifting his hips while Sherlock moaned into the bedding through the last of his orgasm. John rogered him senseless, his cock pounding into him as the man chased his own release with a mindless desperation. Sherlock was screaming, writhing on the bed as he stroked his own cock to keep it firm. He could do this, especially with John milking his prostate like that, he _would_ climax a second time.

“Don’t come yet,” Sherlock panted, “Bring me off again.”

John groaned in apparent agony and Sherlock felt him slip a hand between them to tug at his bollocks and stave off his orgasm.

“Sherlock!” He cried out, his voice agonized, “Please! I can’t!”

“I’m close,” Sherlock admitted, shocked to find he was. It had been almost painful at first, but now he was gasping and trembling as every muscle tensed in anticipation. He hadn’t climaxed in this quick succession in years, but he was on the edge of an absolute explosion of pleasure.

“Oh, fuck your body is _devouring_ me! I can feel you pulling me in! Sherlock! I can’t… oh, gods!”

John tugged at his bollocks again, but Sherlock could tell it wasn’t doing any good this time. It did, however, adjust his depth to give Sherlock’s prostate several quick jabs. Sherlock came screaming into the mattress, his body arching as every muscle in his body spasmed with his release. John screamed out his pleasure as well and it was no wonder the guards burst in. They probably sounded like they were being murdered.

Lestrade threw back the curtains, swore as he shut them again, and slammed the door behind him in his retreat.

John and Sherlock froze a moment, gasping for breath and trying to remember their names. After a moment John spoke.

“Was that Lestrade?”

“Yes.”

They both burst out laughing, John sliding free and collapsing beside Sherlock as he held his sides.

“What… what do you think he…?” John gasped, “What do you think he’ll say next time we see him?”

“I’m more amused by what he’ll _think_ ,” Sherlock laughed, “And here my brother has been jokingly called the ‘queen’ of Camelot.”

“Well apparently there’s three,” John guffawed.

“Three?” Sherlock scoffed, “Sherrinford would never allow himself to be buggered. Especially not in his current state.”

“I meant your mum, but… Oh gods!” John dissolved into further hysterics and then did a rather horrifyingly accurate distressed pig sound.

Sherlock gripped his sides as he laughed, “Oh, gods, it _hurts_.”

“Excuse me,” John drawled, doing an imitation of Lestrade, “Are you here to see the queen?”

“Why yessssss!” Sherlock twittered with a drawn out lisp.

Sherlock rolled from side to side as he laughed and eventually toppled off the bed, getting caught in the bed curtains. They came down with him and he came up with them wrapped around him like a toga. John had sat up in concern, but now he leaned back with an amused look on his face.

“Excuse me, King Mycroft, but I’d like to purchase a slave,” Sherlock slurred, putting on airs like a court member and twittering dramatically.

“I’m afraid all we have available are… well don’t be alarmed, but they’re _sex_ slaves,” John replied, with Mycroft’s trademark lip-curl.

“Sex doesn’t alarm me,” Sherlock replied, pursing his plump lips like a duck and winking lasciviously.

John fell apart laughing and Sherlock dropped the ‘robes’ and climbed into bed with him. He stretched out beside his chuckling lover and smiled down at him. John grinned up with merrily dancing eyes and stroked a hand through his curls.

“You’re amazing,” John breathed.

“Can you live like this? On my whim?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I believe in you. I know you’re brilliant. I know you’re a great man. I want to be there when you show that to the world.”

“I’ve got no intention of being a celebrity,” Sherlock scoffed, “At least not more than I already am by birth.”

“I’ve no intention of watching you hover in your brother’s shadow,” John explained, and fetched his notebook from the bag Sherlock had packed for him.

Sherlock paged through it to find sketches of himself, notes on his deductions, romanticized versions of the events of his work with Lestrade and the other knights. It was charming, endearing, and altogether ridiculous. It was beautiful.

“You intend to publish this?” Sherlock asked.

“So long as you don’t object. I can do that now that I’m free, I suppose. Do you like it?”

“Honestly, no. It’s utterly romanticized.”

“There was romance, I can’t change that,” John replied, looking hurt.

“Anderson and Donovan? Disgusting. If you’re going to memorialize me then the only focus should be on the work itself. Observation and deduction.”

“There’s a difference between observation and deduction?”

“Of course. Observation is your environment – the many trampled footprints on the ground. Deduction is seeing an effect and working your way backward to the cause – isolating which footprints came first and thereby extrapolating the exact height and gate of the killer and victim, when they passed by, and why they walked there in the first place.”

“Brilliant.”

“Elementary. Footprints are a seldom-admired science; people had rather study bloodstains or poisons. Another rarely studied field is tobacco ash.”

“Sorry?”

“Tobacco ash. I have categorized 200 different kinds. I can tell in an instant which type of cigar, pipe, or cigarette was smoked near a crime scene by looking at the ash. They all have a distinct burn pattern. You can easily narrow down who your suspect is by what type of smoke they enjoy. It denotes level of wealth as well as giving you an interview poll.”

“I see, you can go and ask the sellers who typically buys what!” John exclaimed excitedly.

“Precisely.”

“Why has no one thought of this before?”

“Because practically everyone is an idiot.”

John laughed again and kissed Sherlock soundly before going to draw their baths. Sherlock watched him move about with that compact strength of his and wondered that John was his: willingly his.

Now if he could only keep that fact from Moriarty so the spider didn’t try to use John against him.

[CHAPTER THIRTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/28884.html)


	13. vincentmeoblinn | The Mage's Slave Ch 13

Sherlock woke the next morning feeling much more revived and rose eagerly to the sound of John puttering about their rooms. John looked cheerful as well and they greeted each other with a warm kiss before John trotted off to get breakfast. Of course, now that he was a baron he really didn’t have to fetch it himself, just hunt down a servant and get them to do it.

“We’ll have to hire a second servant,” Sherlock stated when he returned, “For the sake of our reputation if nothing else.”

“Just no slaves, please,” John requested, running his hand along Sherlock’s back. He was so forward with his touches now and Sherlock was constantly on edge waiting for the next one. It was quite possible that he was addicted to this man.

“We will start by taking a look at Baker’s Mill and the surrounding buildings and determining what can and can’t be utilized,” Sherlock instructed, “It’s a twenty minute ride, I believe?”

“By horse, yes, a bit more by carriage.”

“That will do. There are delegates arriving here from India today and my presence will be required at dinner – correction, _our_ presence will be required.”

“Ours?”

“You’re a noble now, but we’ll work things out. You just follow my example as exactly as you can and all will be well. Have you ever seen someone use a transportation spell?”

“No! That will happen tonight?” John asked in excitement.

“They’ll be transporting onto the sparring field; it requires a bit of space around it or walls tend to cave in. Those limitations are important in Magic.”

“Yes, they stop us from becoming gods, my mother used to say,” John replied wistfully.

“Or make us more human, yes. What are your limitations?”

“Obviously I can’t _really_ bring back the dead.”

“No, of course not.”

“And there’s a limit to what I can heal. I’ve brought men back from the brink of death, but some illness are simply too powerful. Poisons also overwhelm my abilities. Supposedly I could remove a poison from a man’s bloodstream, but only by sacrificing myself.”

Sherlock shuddered, “Well, we shall hope that never occurs.”

XXXXXXXX

The ride out to Baker’s Mill was uneventful, but took longer than anticipated due to the group of soldiers and such accompanying him. Mycroft had given him six guards, another servants, and Lestrade and Donovan as his knights.

They first went to the town that Sherlock was now the duke of. While a guard sounded the town bell, Sherlock stood up on the lip of the well and pulled off his gloves. He straightened his clothing and waited patiently for men and women to crowd around. Due to the time of year most were in town, otherwise they’d have been preoccupied with the fields. Now, however, if they were out it was earlier morning or evening to hunt the large woods to the east of the town. Instead most were tending their houses, making repairs, crafting, or spending time assisting others in doing some of the same.

“I’m sure most of you know who I am,” Sherlock started up loudly once the populace had gathered around, “but for those of you who do not, I am Prince Sherlock of Camelot and your new duke. The lands around you and your town have been given me by my brother king Mycroft as my inheritance.”

John leaned sideways and hissed at him then: “Console them, they’re frightened!”

“I look forward to a peaceful coexistence with you all. I applaud your efforts to make this town beautiful and prosperous. As you all know, I’m a Mage of some skill. What you may not know is that I am not above a bit of work. I see some of your homes are in poor state, and this well especially. I can work stone and earth to your benefit and intend to do whatever is in my power to make your lives easier. Obviously I cannot do all for you, that would upset the balance and anger our neighbors, but I can certainly aid you when necessary.”

So stated, Sherlock stepped off the crumbling, stained well, pulled out his focus and pressed it to the well with a muttered word. The cracked stone solidified and became sturdy again; the muddy ground around it became flagstones.

“I think you will find less sediment in your water from now on,” Sherlock advised, “Don’t fear to drink it. It’s quite safe.”

Sherlock nodded to John who used the nearby pole to break the ice from the well and dropped the bucket down. He drew it up and Sherlock sampled the water himself, nodding his contentment. The people watched all this carefully, but seemed to be withholding judgment. Sherlock stood on the edge again.

“My husband and I will be situated at the old Baker’s Mill. We are currently doing renovations, but come next week you may bring your concerns to us. Baron John Watson, my husband, is a physician. Have you any urgent medical needs that can not wait until then?”

Silence a moment and then a woman stepped forward, “My daughter has been ill for two seasons. No doctor has been able to heal her.”

John glanced up at Sherlock, who nodded his permission, and the two left with a guard escort. Sherlock glanced around at the rest and then stepped off the well.

“Have the servants water the horses,” Sherlock advised Lestrade, “Make a show of drinking the water yourselves. We want them to know it’s good enough for us, otherwise they may fear enchantment.”

Lestrade nodded and went to do as instructed while Sherlock took two guards and headed into the town’s small pub. He noted on his way that it advertised as an Inn, but he doubted it had more than two rooms to let based on it’s size and the size of the family that ran it. He ordered a flagon of hot mead and sat sipping its warmth while waiting for John to reappear.

An hour later John returned looking a bit tired, but triumphant.

“The poor girl,” John sighed as he sat down, “She must have been in agony; she had a nasty infection from a parasite. The parasite was long gone, but I found its illness and removed it.”

Sherlock passed the remainder of his flagon to John, whose face lit up as he accepted it. He downed it in one long pull and Sherlock snickered at the sight. So, his lover enjoyed his drink? That could be… fun.

“Are any other villagers in danger of incurring the same infection?” Sherlock asked.

“I doubt it. We’d have seen signs by now. According to the few I spoke to no one else have had symptoms. Likely the tick died after infecting her.”

“A relief, then. We’ll get to Baker’s Mill and set it up properly so we can make sure no one goes so long without treatment again.”

Lestrade and Donovan got up from their table and headed over to them, Donovan scowling miserably. She never looked at John. Ever.

“Our supplies are in,” Lestrade informed them, and Sherlock nodded to the guard who had reported that information. He threw his coins down on the counter and left with his entourage in tow.

Once outside they put the grain they’d bought on the backs of two horses, the pack of material on the back of another, and headed back onto the road. They reached Baker’s Mill well before noon. It really was in a shambles, but the structure was sound. Sherlock stepped in alone after the guards had checked it for intruders and pulled out his focus. He went from room to room making repairs first.

The main room was to be a reception/throne room; he’d need stone to create a sort of throne for himself and a small chair for John. The dining room off of the kitchen was to be John’s infirmary. The kitchen was in admirable condition. There were two small bedrooms on the first floor: he’d make them quarters for the guards. Sherlock noted a fresh pile of straw and some blankets in one of those rooms, which indicated where John had slept the one night he’d stayed. It was a miracle he hadn’t frozen to death. The wood on the stairs was rotted out and would have to be the first repair they made. Sherlock climbed it via a better-preserved ladder someone had located in the barn. He glanced in annoyance at the hole over the stairway that had resulted in its rot – well, that would have to be first and the stairs second. A perusal of the upstairs revealed no more wood rot- thank goodness- and a fair amount of remaining furniture. The bedding he immediately stuffed out of a window along with all the straw from the mattress therein. His own things would be arriving over the next two days, they’d just have to make due until then. A nice little camp set up in the first chamber downstairs would do. There were four rooms upstairs, more than enough for John, himself, and the knights to have quarters. It was small for a duchy, and frankly insulting for even the third son of a king, but it would be adequate. Put a big stone wall around it and it would even be secure.

Sherlock returned downstairs and directed the servants to clean up the mess he’d tossed out the windows, retaining anything serviceable as rags. The guards were directed to set up camp in the front room and kitchen, utilizing the stove and freshly repaired fireplace to heat the rooms. The servants would then make them a lunch once Lestrade, Donovan, and John returned from hunting. Sherlock himself went in search of stones with one of the guards and the mule and soon had more repairs done.

John, apparently, loved to hunt. He returned cheerful and proud of the two conies he’d managed to shoot. Apparently he’d used a sling and Lestrade was quite impressed with his aim.

“I did this all the time as a lad,” John chattered cheerfully as he skinned the creatures with a hunting knife, “Father taught us to be self-sufficient. You never knew when the villagers might turn on us for practicing Magic. Of course, since King Moriarty took the throne Magic hasn’t been _technically_ outlawed, but some people are still very prejudiced towards it.”

Sherlock watched John’s movements and silently admired his beloved. John worked easily and amicably with the guards, but instinctively avoided Donovan. Sherlock overheard her mutter ‘freak’ beneath her breath as John told his story. Sherlock was going to have to watch her _very_ carefully. He rather thought Mycroft sending her had been an intentional move; she had never forgiven John for using Anderson’s body to attack the enemy camp during their imprisonment.

John tossed the meat into a stewpot, washed up, and left the servants to finish the meal. The man kept the skins for himself, apparently his excuse for doing servant work, and now brought them over to Sherlock with a look of pride on his face. He pulled out his dirk and Sherlock sat up in interest.

“Living things and dead things,” John explained smiling sadly at the skins, “I can still feel life in these skins. Isn’t that sad? Yet they have their purpose as we do; ashes to ashes and dust to dust. We’re all just one giant cycle, from the highest king to the lowliest slave.”

John began to hum softly as he wrapped the skins around his dirk along with a large bit of salt, there was a muddying glow of hazy blue clouds and then John held up a pair of soft rabbit skin slippers, bound in their own leather.

“My wedding present to you,” John explained, kneeling at Sherlock’s feet and removing his shoes to slip the soft slippers on, “Our new home is rather chill, especially with all this stone. Do you like them?”

“Yes.”

John raised his eyes a bit and looked at Sherlock through his eyelashes, the intensity of his gaze stirring Sherlock’s loins. He looked somewhere caught between predator and pray, a lion submitting himself to a unicorn. Sherlock grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him between his legs, kissing him soundly. John moaned into his mouth and they snogged hungrily for several seconds, ignoring the chuckles and brazen comments of Lestrade and the guards. When Sherlock pushed John away he toppled onto his back and gazed up at him; lips parted, eyes glazed, and erection distorting the front of his trousers.

“Check on lunch,” Sherlock ordered with a smirk.

John scrambled to rise, adjusting his erection, and hurried on his way. Sherlock had been shocked to find that John could change the shape of the skins. He’d only ever known his own kind to be able to transmute, then again it really wasn’t transmutation. He was only manipulating the shape of the skins – once a part of a living creature – and had aged the skins so that they were dried and preserved with the salt. He wondered if his lover could work some Magic on the furniture upstairs. It had all been quite rustic and charming, keeping it rather than getting new would be ideal.

He didn’t get a chance to ask, however, because once John reported that the food wasn’t done yet he headed straight for the rotten stairs and asked everyone to stand aside. He paused, stabbed his dirk into the first step, and began to sing a [slow lilting song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iyGM13yYc3Q) about a moon. The stairs groaned and creaked and then began to _grow_ with a blue light surrounding them. They grew twigs and leaves in random places, the wood melting together rather than being strictly separate, and nails popped out and clattered to the floor, but they retained the shape of stairs. In the end he was left with what looked like the natural formation of a tree growing into a flight of stairs. When John’s power left it the leaves instantly died and he took up a hatchet to take off the unneeded twigs.

“It needs sanding,” John sighed as though he’d failed completely.

Sherlock was across the room and sweeping the Mage into his arms instantly. He spun him about, laughing and dancing with him in a spur of the moment waltz. John laughed as well, clasping Sherlock’s hip as they spun and the pulling him close. Sherlock dipped the Healer and then pulled him up for an impassioned kiss.

“You are amazing,” John laughed happily.

“I know,” Sherlock agreed, then climbed the stairs and pointed out the hole in the roof.

“I’ll need someone to hold the ladder,” John nodded as he surveyed the work above him.

“Good, get to work on the furniture after that,” Sherlock turned and was halfway down the stairs when he saw Lestrade frowning in concern at John, “Unless… unless you’re tired?”

“Hm? Oh, no, not really. This doesn’t use up energy the way Necromancy does,” John beamed at him and Sherlock found himself returning the smile.

He could learn. He could learn to give back to John, even if it was only a little bit. Perhaps that was why Lestrade had been sent along… then again, perhaps Mycroft was just getting his latest fling out of the castle after a nasty break up.

XXXXXXXX

Sherlock, John, and two guards returned to the castle early enough to witness the royal party arriving from India. John was practically vibrating beside him with excitement. He had his arm wrapped around Sherlock’s and was dressed in fine new clothing which accented his diminutive figure while emphasizing his muscles. Sherlock didn’t regret a single sovereign spent on the clothes. He himself wore clothing he had worn at another occasion, but it was even more decorative and no one would care overmuch if a third son wore a previously donned outfit. Mycroft had noticed, but Mycroft didn’t count.

Lestrade stood tall and proud beside Mycroft, their arms linked. Their relationship was a mystery to Sherlock. He’d thought they’d broken up when Lestrade had been sent to Baker’s Mill, but there they were quite clearly still in… whatever passed for love between those two. Lestrade alternated looking at Mycroft with something akin to hate and then the next moment as though he were the rising sun across a frozen wasteland.

Finally the dignitaries arrived. There was a blinding flash of turquoise blue light, a rush of pressure and air that made the surrounding people stagger, and then the elegantly dressed Indian dignitaries were simply standing there. John gasped and let out a long ‘ohhhh!’ as he stared at the vibrant colors and beautiful flowing clothes.

“Never seen an Indian, either?” Sherlock asked softly in bemusement.

John shook his head but did not answer out loud. Sherlock pressed a loving kiss to his temple and stepped forward to greet them after his brother had finished his (thankfully short) speech and welcomed them.

“Good day Queen Priyanka,” Sherlock smiled, accepting the extended hand and kissing its soft brown, fragrant skin, “You are looking as gorgeous as ever. When will you run away with me?”

Priyanka laughed musically and gave him a playful slap on the cheek. Priyanka was the Mage who had transported the group and they had been childhood friends ever since she had accidentally transported herself into the woods near their castle as a small child. Sherlock had been on the search party to find the young girl, whom everyone had expected to be cowering in fear and a puddle of tears. Instead she had been up in a tree making bows and arrows when Sherlock had looked _up_ … as no one else in the search party had bothered to do. When she was finally coaxed into climbing down and going back with them she had explained that she hadn’t known where she was or when rescue would come, so she had been preparing for the long haul. She’d already made an axe out of flint, a thick stick, and her hair ribbons.

Sherlock had instantly been smitten with her and only his inability to be sexually attracted to women had halted their marriage. She was the only person besides John who put up with him, but then he admittedly treated her differently than anyone else.

“Priyanka, may I happily introduce my husband, Baron John Watson of Baker’s Mill. I’ve taken on a duchy there. I’d invite you to visit, but we’re still under construction.”

Priyanka gasped in delight at his announcement and pressed a kiss to John’s cheek, offering her earnest congratulations.

“Sherlock! I am so thrilled for you! You take good care of this man, Lord Watson, he is very important to me,” Priyanka shook her finger at John and he blushed and smiled at Sherlock.

“You may speak,” Sherlock allowed, which earned him a confused look from Priyanka.

“It’s an honor to meet you, your grace,” John replied, blushing at her enthusiasm.

“My husband, Rahul, could not join us this time,” Priyanka explained as she took Sherlock’s other arm and he led her towards the palace proper, “He is overseeing some repairs after a horrible storm damaged southern India.”

“I had heard about that, such a tragedy,” Sherlock commented, “Please excuse me.”

XXX

John watched Sherlock hurry ahead of them to use his abilities on the frozen ground ahead. It had been trampled quite a bit and had turned into a mushy, slushy, slippery mess.

“Who are you?” Queen Priyanka asked him, her accent musical to his ears, “Sherlock does not get close to people. I am probably the closest to him and he did not even tell me of his engagement! If you are after his inheritance…”

The queen’s arm had tightened on John’s suddenly, her nails pressing into his skin until they drew blood. He looked at her beautiful face to see her eyes narrowed threateningly, her full lips pressed together and her nostrils flared. John had known enough dangerous men and women in his life to know when he was looking at someone who would kill without remorse; this exotic beauty was one such person. John hastened to console her.

“I’m no threat to Sherlock, or his inheritance. It was all sort of a rush, you see. I started out as his slave, and then king Mycroft gave me a title as a reward so we married immediately so our… relationship… wouldn’t be damaged. I’m completely beholden to him. Honestly, you’ve nothing to fear.”

“You were his slave?”

“Y-yes.”

XXX

“Something the matter?” Sherlock queried, his eyes narrowing at Priyanka’s grip on John’s arm.

“Not a thing,” Priyanka replied, planting a content look on her face that smacked of falsehood. She released John’s arm and Sherlock snatched it up, watching the five punctures close up.

“Right. Well, lets go in, shall we? It looks like we may get some freezing rain today. The weather this time of year can be so foul, it’s a pity you aren’t visiting during spring or fall,” Sherlock stated cheerfully.

“Some day I will have to take you and your husband to my country, Sher,” Priyanka chirped.

“Priya, that would be simply _delightful_ ,” Sherlock replied truthfully. He loved seeing the varied expressions on John’s face, and he’d be guaranteed far more while touring a new country – especially one as diverse and expressive as India.

They stepped into the castle and walked the short distance to the largest dining hall. The entourage was situated on one long side of the table while the receiving English party was stretched across the other. Mycroft was at the head of the table with Sherlock to his right, John beside him, and Lestrade beside John. Priyanka was at the foot of the table with her fellow diplomats stretched out to her right.

Lestrade’s positioning was very telling of their relationship, especially since the rest of the court was put to his right. A consort, perhaps? For the first time Sherlock realized what his decisions had done to Mycroft. With Sherrinford as Heir Apparent Mycroft would have been free to marry Lestrade. Now he was required to take a wife unless they could re-discover the mythological ability for men to bear children that Merlin supposedly had. Sherlock wasn’t even sure that there was any truth to the tale; he rather suspected they’d faked it and adopted a child in order to remain together once Guinevere proved infertile.

The meal progressed with cheerful enthusiasm as both Indian and English dishes were served. John was instantly in love with Indian food and tried some of everything, moaning appreciatively at the flavors. He was getting lustful looks from an Indian woman across from him – Sherlock recalled her to be of similar position to John’s nobility rank (not counting his marriage to Sherlock). Sherlock himself was half-hard from the sounds John was making and was considering requesting Priyanka transport an Indian cook to them. He’d happily trade one household servant for an Indian cook if it made John this enthusiastic about his meals.

_I wonder how eager he would be to eat food off of my body…_

Sherlock had just leaned over to whisper that filthy thought into John’s ear when the man suddenly went rigid beside him and gave a suspicious look around the room.

“John?” Sherlock asked in concern.

“There’s someone here who shouldn’t be,” John hissed back.

John’s eyes scanned the tall windows high up on the walls. They were designed to provide both privacy and natural light, so they were ten feet up and quite wide as opposed to the safer narrow windows in the rest of the castle. They were also quite well barred and had no access points on the other side. That, apparently, hadn’t prevented someone from scaling them. As Sherlock followed John’s gaze he saw a shadowy figure up on the ledge, the glass in the window was shattered just as Sherlock took a breath to shout a warning.

“ASSASSIN!” Sherlock shouted and whipped out his focus to use the rock to pin the man.

Sherlock saw a wooden pole raised to the figure’s face just before he was tackled to the ground where the rest of the nobles had already fallen. A glance showed a feathered dart sticking in his chair.

_Poison! John can’t cure that!_

John must have decided drastic action was warranted because his dirk was out and he darted into a standing position to face off against the assailant.

A/N – There will be an alternate BAMF!SHERLOCK ending for this story, which has already been written: it would be chronologically after this chapter and somewhat sad, but not really a sad ending.

[CHAPTER FOURTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/29160.html)   
  


[ALTERNATE CHAPTER FOURTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/30767.html)

 


	14. vincentmeoblinn | The Mage's Slave Ch 14

(Also see the Alternate BAMF!SHERLOCK Ending)

“Get down!” Sherlock ordered, but John was up on the table and he couldn’t pull him down without putting himself at risk. John, he was sure, would kill himself trying to save him if he were poisoned, “Damn it, John! Get down! That’s an order! Let the knights handle it!!”

John ignored him, running down the table, possibly to get a decent shot at the assassin. Sherlock tried to stand, hoping to use John as a distraction, but the man’s attention was solely on him and he barely avoided being shot. Sherlock heard the _thunk_ of another dart and then a whistle as something flew through the air. Silence followed. John swore then and rolled off the table onto the ground and beneath the table. He crawled quickly towards Sherlock, a look of horror on his face.

“He’s an inferi! I can’t kill him!”

“You’re certain?” Sherlock pleaded.

“Positive. I hit him with my dirk. Only an inferi would be unaffected.”

“Fuck!” Sherlock punched the table above him.

“It’s after you, Sherlock. It won’t stop until it’s been completely dismembered or burnt.”

“Priyanka! Blow him out of that window!” Sherlock shouted, and bolted across the room despite John’s cries for him to come back.

A devastating wind rushed out and knocked the inferi from the window onto the grounds below. Sherlock stopped and spun and was instantly enveloped in John’s arms.

“You mad, _mad_ fool!” John breathed.

“You two!” Mycroft shouted at two knights, “Take as many guards as you can find and quickly as possible find that man. Chop his arms and legs off, but _don’t_ touch the weapon in him! Restrain him and his body parts.”

“Twice the fool,” Sherlock whispered back to John, clutching him tightly, “I’m going to punish you for disobeying me earlier.”

“He was _shooting at you_ ,” John snarled.

“You obey me. Always,” Sherlock insisted, hugging him tightly with one hand behind his head and pressing kisses to his face and neck.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft cleared his throat.

Sherlock reluctantly removed his face from his slave’s neck and scowled at his brother.

“Yes, Sire?” Sherlock asked, his tone not the least bit respectful.

“If you wouldn’t mind having John examine the inferi?”

Sherlock nodded and the party was dispersed for safety sake. The inferi was taken into the throne room where John tried to convince Sherlock _not_ to go.

“He’ll do anything to kill you. Nothing will make him stop except dismembering and burning his remains. He’s only had his arms and legs removed, that doesn’t make him harmless.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Sherlock scolded.

On the floor was the squirming torso of a man who had clearly been dead for many days, yet he was not bloated and no insects came near him. His body was heavily wrapped in cloth to hide this fact, but it had come undone when his arms and legs had been chopped off. His jaw was lax and one eye was missing from its socket. Mycroft gagged a bit and moved further away, but Sherlock hurried forward in curiosity.

“Sherlock,” John pleaded, “Please, Master.”

“Come here, John, tell me what I’m seeing. I know woefully little about inferi.”

“He was altered with the focus of a necromancer,” John explained in his doctor’s voice as he stepped closer, “The focus is first plunged into the necromancer’s eye to collect his order and then stabbed into the victim’s brain at the base of the spine. The person continues to live, although this one appears to have died-” John paused and leaned forward to sniff at a wound, “-Yes, he died three days ago. He’ll continue to move until disabled by dismemberment, as you see here, and he’ll continue to ‘exist’ until burnt to ash.”

“Fascinating,” Sherlock breathed, “tell me, John. How much energy does it take to control them, and how far can they be from the necromancer before control is lost?”

“None, and virtually no limit.”

“No limit?” Sherlock asked in alarm.

“Yes. They actually run on their own energy, first life energy and then the gasses that would normally decompose a body. As you can see he is rotting, but he is not bloated and only the surface is decomposing. No insects will touch an inferi, which cuts down on a lot of the rot. Eventually he would fall apart, but depending on the elements and how long it takes him first to die and then to rot completely…”

“What killed him?”

“I’d have to dissect him to know what killed him first since I don’t see any obvious wounds. His neck is broken – that is the most likely cause if it didn’t occur just now. He would have picked himself up and kept going, Magically drawn to his target at all times.”

“Are they only used to kill?”

“No. You can give them any order, but only one. I heard a horror story as a child in which a powerful necromancer created thirty inferi and set them all on various tasks around a gigantic farm. They just kept at it: plowing the field or milking the cows day and night for over a year. He had slaves who would lock them up in huge cages whenever their task was complete and couldn’t be continued – like with the cows. They aren’t capable of free thought, but they aren’t unintelligent either. Sometimes they escaped the cages and went back to work. They were rotting eventually – having died from various accidents since they have no self-preservation instincts – and the surrounding villages finally got together and razed the entire farm to the ground. Several of the inferi were not burnt completely, though the necromancer died, and they just kept working the burnt soil for years. Everyone was afraid to go in and do anything about it. They were a thing of nightmares.”

Sherlock and Mycroft’s eyes met and he knew they were on the same page. Father’s plan to raise undead soldiers and send them to fight would have failed because John wasn’t capable of holding control of that many for that long without dropping dead, but this? An army of inferi under order to kill anyone within Camelot’s borders was not only possible, but also utterly devastating.

“Sherlock, there shouldn’t even be this many necromancers active at once. We’re supposed to be the most rare form of Mage. We are in a great deal of danger, aren’t we?” John asked.

[CHAPTER FIFTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/29305.html)


	15. vincentmeoblinn | The Mage's Slave Ch 15

John was the only one allowed into Mycroft’s war planning room besides Sherlock, so as such he was running back and forth fetching things for them. Sherlock drew the line at Mycroft ordering John around; he might have been king but John was _his_ slave. In the end John looked ready to drop so Sherlock told him to fetch a pillow and had him sit at his feet and put his head in Sherlock’s lap. John sighed in relief and was almost instantly asleep.

Sherlock petted his hair and they both spoke quietly, though Sherlock doubted it would matter since John was so very exhausted.

“We have no choice, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, “He’s going to go after us one way or another.”

“You’re talking about slaughtering half of our people and sending them out to war. At least give them a fighting chance by sending them there _alive_.”

“To fight an undead army? An army of inferi? Killing them first is a mercy.”

Sherlock rubbed his eyes. They’d had this part of the argument several times and he thought he was beginning to burn brain cells from knocking their heads together so much. He glanced out the window – situated at the top of the tallest tower in the castle – and wondered what on earth could beat an entire army full of inferi. Well… aside from a volcano erupting or…

“A dragon,” Sherlock breathed.

“Beg pardon?” Mycroft asked.

“A dragon. A dragon in the air and an entire army of fire Mages on the ground.”

“A brilliant plan, Sherlock, with the sole exception that we haven’t got either.”

“We have allies. We must contact them and collect any and all fire Mages: from toddler to old age, thief to professional.”

“You propose we use Priyanka to perform this task?”

“Yes, if she’ll aid us. I believe she will.”

“It will exhaust her, but very well, and the dragon?”

“You take care of Priyanka, I’ll look for a dragon. John,” Sherlock shook his lover into consciousness, “John, your abilities with the living and dead, what other things can you do you haven’t mentioned? You turned hide into slippers. You sensed that man in the window. Can you sense what a creature might be turned into?”

“That’s transmutation,” John grumbled, and shoved his head back down into Sherlock’s lap, nuzzling his groin to get comfortable.

Sherlock’s cock jumped eagerly at the unintentional stimulation, but he pulled John back up by his hair anyway: “Yes, but what about _sensing_ it? Can you figure out by your Magic what creature or person could be turned into a dragon?”

“I… I suppose. I’m not sure.”

“ _Try!”_

“I’d need a test subject, I suppose,” John stammered.

Sherlock dragged John to his feet and down the stairs and grabbed the first servant he came across.

“Do her,” Sherlock ordered.

The servant looked fit to faint and squeaked out a protest, “I’m married, I am!!”

“Shut up,” Sherlock ordered, and the girl fell silent despite sniveling miserably.

“Beg pardon, miss,” John consoled, “He doesn’t mean what he sounds like. I’m a doctor; if I could just examine you? Nothing invasive, I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Sherlock scolded, but John ignored him in favor of placing a hand on the young woman’s forehead.

There were several minutes of silence as John shut his eyes and hummed softly, and then John shook his head in the negative.

“I can’t sense anything except her health. Congratulations, by the way, you’re six weeks pregnant. Try to be careful on the stairs.”

The young woman gaped, then burst into happy tears and thanked him repeatedly. Sherlock frowned angrily and tugged John along to find a different servant.

“Perhaps her pregnancy threw you off,” Sherlock growled.

“Sherlock… Sire… what are we looking for?”

“Someone I can turn into a dragon. My very limited experiences- and the subsequent research I did- have taught me that someone needs to be turned into creatures that represent themselves in order for it to be a functional transformation.”

“What are the odds of us finding a creature or human with that kind of personality, convincing them to help, and then getting all this together in time to defeat king Moriarty?”

“Slim to none, but we have to _try_ ,” Sherlock insisted.

“What if it’s you?”

“What?” Sherlock stopped, giving John a confused look.

“What if you’re the dragon? You… you feel like a dragon to me,” John stated, and Sherlock tried to ignore the rather worshipful look in his eyes, but it was a bit difficult.

“Well… I can’t very well transmute myself, and I’ve already determined that it will require four other Earth Mages trained in Transmutation to accomplish this task… Have you a suggestion?”

“I’ve no ideas, but you might as well start close to home. Still, if it isn’t possible, it isn’t possible.”

“A Fire Mage would be the most likely person, but we need to hone your skills first,” Sherlock insisted, tugging John along.

“We don’t know if I _have_ any skills!”

“We might as well start close to home!” Sherlock countered.

Two hours and twelve terrified servants later Sherlock dragged John into the throne room where Mycroft had gathered six Fire Mages, five Earth Mages, one Water Mage, three Sidhe, and John; Priyanka was nowhere to be seen. The Sidhe moved towards John the moment he stepped in and Sherlock yanked him behind his back while raising his focus, instantly on alert lest they be there to collect on his debt. They were two women, one old and one young, and a young man: of course, with the Sidhe age was subjective. The young man seemed familiar somehow… but Sherlock was sure they’d never met. He had longish dirty-blonde hair and a broad nose. Like all Sidhe they were beautiful, even the old woman.

“Sherlock, lower your focus!” Mycroft ordered angrily, “They are our guests! You wanted a Magical army, well this is all Priyanka and I could manage in so short a time.”

“Please,” John whispered in Sherlock’s ear, “Let me talk to them. They might know where my sister is.”

“They might want to collect you!”

“I’m not gender fluid.”

“That’s beside the p…”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft shouted.

Sherlock lowered his focus with a frown, and the Sidhe stepped forward, faintly shimmering and unbearably beautiful. They beamed at John as though he were one of their own and extended their hands, one on top of the other with a gap in between as though they were holding an orb between them. John stepped forward and placed his hands the same, only vertical, and slipped them in between so that it looked as though they were holding an invisible object together.

“Hail, Beautiful Ones. May your forests grow thick and be as pure as a child,” John recited.

“Greetings, sympathizer, may your powers grow stronger and your enemies weaker.”

“I hope that is the case, Beautiful Ones. I am Baron John Watson, at your service.”

“ _Not_ at your service! He’s at _my_ service!” Sherlock snapped, grabbing John and yanking him backwards by his collar.

The Sidhe laughed while Mycroft bellowed.

“We won’t steal him from you, Mage,” the oldest Sidhe laughed, “We have no reason to. He has conveniently joined those we would wage war against.”

“Somehow I’m not comforted,” Sherlock replied with narrowed eyes.

“I am Nayru, and these are Farore and Din,” the oldest Sidhe indicated the younger female and then the male behind her.

John waited until Sherlock released him and then stepped forward to greet the other two while Sherlock hovered jealously.

“Prince Sherlock has a plan to turn someone or something into a dragon and annihilate the inferi army. Do you have any suggestions?”

“That’s quite the undertaking,” Nayru commented with a frown, “Wouldn’t it be easier to bribe a dragon for help?”

“Bribe a dragon?” Sherlock asked, shoving John aside. He staggered and then gave him an annoyed look, which he ignored.

“We know of one… for a price,” Farore tittered.

“No,” Sherlock snapped.

“What price?” John asked.

“Kneel!” Sherlock barked without taking his eyes off the Faeries. The Sidhe looked offended until John’s knees hit the ground; then they looked curious.

“He is your slave?” Din asked with a frown.

“Willingly, yes,” Sherlock stated firmly.

“A willing slave?” Farore laughed musically.

Sherlock nodded to John who lifted his head and smiled up at them, “I gave myself to Sherlock; first in marriage and then as his slave. We have a written agreement for both.”

The Sidhe all looked incredibly serious at that and Din spoke firmly, “You’ve made one of our favored a slave.”

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock smiled warmly as they gaped in disgust.

Sherlock walked over to where John kneeled and ran a hand through his hair. John looked up at him with absolute love and devotion. When Sherlock stopped petting his hair John grasped his hand and kissed each knuckle. Sherlock smiled at his example and put a finger to his chin to guide him to his feet again. John rose at his speed and stood before him; an open book for his eyes alone.

“Gods, I love you,” John breathed.

Sherlock caught him up and kissed him hungrily before releasing him again.

“I think you’ll see I have the greater claim over John,” Sherlock informed the Sidhe, “Though I have no qualms of allowing you to use his abilities; in fact I welcome it.”

Nayru laughed outright, “You would allow us to use that which belongs to us? Did you think your lad was _born_ a necromancer?” Sherlock grew still in alarm, “Only one necromancer is born per generation - one for every ten healers without the corresponding power - otherwise they would war with each other. We gave John Watson his gift to counter Moriarty when our seer foresaw that he would be a madman and use his gift to desecrate the world.”

“Moriarty himself is the necromancer?” Sherlock asked, not really surprised.

“His power is greater than your Baron Watson’s,” Farore explained sadly, “Yet you can still use him to your benefit. If you will not pay for a dragon to bribe, you can find one to raise from the dead.”

“Where?”

“For a price,” Din chuckled again.

“ _No_!” Sherlock snarled, “I know what high prices the Sidhe require of their ‘business partners’!”

“Sire, I know where a dead dragon lies,” John spoke up, hope in his voice.

“Where?” Sherlock asked eagerly.

“In my old village, over…”

Sherlock interrupted him with a groan, “Over the _border_. In Moriarty’s lands! He has probably raised it already. I would have.”

“He wouldn’t know of it,” John insisted.

“Why not?” Sherlock demanded with eyes narrowed at John.

“Because our town mayor killed him with Magic while king James Moriarty the First was reigning; the one who hated Magic and swore to wipe it from the surface of the Earth. Our village was being attacked but there was no time to ask for help from the knights so a young man stepped forward and killed the dragon using Wind Magic to bring it crashing to the ground. He was made mayor and the entire village swore never to tell the secret. Likely I’m the first to break that vow.”

“You see, we chose well,” Nayru stated softly.

“Exceedingly well,” Sherlock agreed suspiciously, “Where does the dragon lie? Surely they would have noticed his rotting corpse.”

“The same lad Transported him into an abandoned mine.”

“Priyanka is exhausted,” Mycroft sighed, “She could no more Transport there than she could Transport such a large creature _out_. She would need days to recover.”

“Yet there is a way in,” Din replied with an amused chuckle.

“You laugh far to much for someone headed for war,” Sherlock growled in annoyance, “I assume you mean through the Faerie forest surrounding John’s village.”

“Of course.”

“And you won’t show us the way or allow us safe passage without paying a price,” Sherlock sighed, “Dull.”

“No!” John crowed, “I know the way! I was going to use it to escape before I fell in love with you! I was just waiting to get my focus back.”

“You have it now,” Din replied seriously, “Why stay? Come with us and we’ll give you your sister back.”

Sherlock spun around in alarm. John’s face was drawn in agony. Din’s hand was extended to him in supplication.

“She… she’s all right?” John asked.

“Completely unharmed… and not held captive as you are,” Farore assured with a delicate smile.

“Then I have no reason to intervene in her new life,” John replied, “Sherlock has told me she is likely happier than she ever was before. That’s all I ever wanted for her; she’d resent my interference.”

Din smiled slowly, “I will help.”

“We don’t need your help, John knows the way,” Sherlock replied.

“He knows the way in, yes, but I can grant the rest of your army safe passage and I know how to get the dragon _out_. I will require no fee or debt.”

John looked curiously at Sherlock who smiled softly, “Then I will accept your help…” Sherlock stepped closer to Din and whispered softly in his ear, “Harriet Watson.”

Din laughed and turned away, motioning for the others to join him: “We depart immediately!”

[CHAPTER SIXTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/29457.html)


	16. vincentmeoblinn | The Mage's Slave Ch 16

The Faerie forest was eerily still, as all Faerie forests were. The humans called this forest Sherwood, but the name for it in the Sidhe language was a secret and they spoke of it only as ‘The Forest’ in the company of humans, as though it were the only one in existence; for their kind, perhaps it was since Sherlock knew they believed the entire world had once been a forest and that humans were a blight upon it. Sherlock, Lestrade, Donovan, and Din were leading their little expedition. In their party were the Fire Mages, Earth Mages, Water Mage, the three Sidhe, Priyanka, and Priyanka’s handmaiden- Impa- who moved like a panther.

The tiny group was all that would face Moriarty when the time came, but Sherlock had no doubt that the madman had more up his sleeve. He discussed the possibility with Din, but the Changeling’s cooperation seemed to have ended. He spoke in verse and teased Sherlock mercilessly. They stopped to make camp after the first day, and Sherlock ground his teeth in frustration. A Faerie forest could be traversed across the entire globe in a few steps if the Faerie people decided to allow it, which was why collecting plants there was so vital to healers. They could get plants from all over the globe if they were a virgin willing to spend a few moments flirting with – and resisting – the Fae within. That being said, you never knew if they would actually take you where you wanted to go, spit you out where you started, or drop you off in Bangladesh. Having trained in Faerie healing, John had an awareness of the Faerie forest that would allow him to traverse it from one point to another, but was limited in that he couldn’t simply appear where he wanted to go. He had to go the long way, but he could do so unmolested… Well, unmolested by fairies.

Sherlock decided to take out his frustration the only way he knew how; he calmly marched over to John and ordered him into their sleeping roll. John stood and followed. Sherlock slipped in first and John climbed on top, kissing him hungrily and tugging at his clothing. Sherlock noted Din making a face and finding something else to do outside of the camp, much to his amusement.

Once nude Sherlock turned over – a strenuous feat - and rubbed himself against John’s body, enjoying the feel of the shaft hardening between his cheeks.

“Oil?” John panted.

“Better idea,” Sherlock promised, and then spun their position about once more, only this time he was inside the sleeproll backwards and on his back.

John had suffered being elbowed and nudged through all of this in silence, but if Sherlock thought he’d have to order John to continue he was wrong. The man hungrily buried his face between Sherlock’s thighs and dug right in. Sherlock moaned and began running his tongue along John’s bollocks as the delightful man separated his arse cheeks and began prodding his furled pucker eagerly. He’d have to curl up a bit to get to John’s cock, but he had no regrets on his decision. He was toasty warm, being eaten out, and about to engage in his new favorite hobby of cock sucking. Life couldn’t be better.

Sherlock adjusted their position and swallowed John down, rotating his head to nuzzle his bollocks while sucking happily along the shaft, osculating the head, and tonguing the slit. John was moaning enthusiastically and only Sherlock’s determination to bring him off kept Sherlock from giving up his attempt at a superb show of fellatio in favor of simply dying from pleasure. John was devouring him, his tongue fucking Sherlock’s now open and twitching hole as he likely wished to do to his Master’s mouth. John wouldn’t dare. He let him get away with all manner of things most Masters would not put up with, but gagging him with his cock was where he drew the line.

Sherlock was about to pop off to tell the impertinent slave to _use his damn fingers_ , when the man did exactly that without prompting. Sherlock’s mouth went slack and John whimpered piteously, still lathing Sherlock’s tightening balls with his tongue as he thrust two fingers inside his Master’s grasping body. Sherlock clenched his muscles just to show John what he was missing and then sucked his cock back into his mouth with a vengeance.

John _growled_. He bloody growled! The vibration went through the testicles he was mouthing and straight into the prostate he was stimulating with both fingers and Sherlock was coming in buckets. He absolutely did _not_ make a sound that resembled a man dying. He _did_ however, managed to deepthroat John out of sheer shock and was quickly overwhelmed by the flood of hot semen in his own mouth. Sherlock swallowed twice instinctively, panicked, choked, and then regained himself in time to milk the last of John’s orgasm from him.

John went limp on top of him and he enjoyed the heavy weight for a moment. Then he was aware of the stickiness seeping in and scolded John to find a solution.

“M’kay,” John whimpered, and climbed carefully out of the sleeproll.

Sherlock waited to right himself until after John returned and cleaned him up a bit. Once that was done they both re-dressed in case of emergency during the night before cuddling close to each other. Sleep was not elusive at all that night, though most nights Sherlock often tossed and turned or even went without. Instead he sank into a deep sleep in which he and John were both dragons – John white and he black – which flew across the sky in a constant infinity loop just because they could.

[CHAPTER SEVENTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/29880.html)


	17. vincentmeoblinn | The Mage's Slave Ch 17

They emerged from the forest right beside the mine and Sherlock immediately ordered John and the three Earth Mages into the mines. Din did not disagree so Sherlock assumed he’d correctly deduced his intentions.

“You’re sending me in? Without you?” John asked in surprise.

“You can manage without me, can’t you?” Sherlock replied with a smirk.

“Well, yes, but…” John leaned forward, a teasing look on his face, “Scared?”

Sherlock barked out a laugh and slapped John upside the head playfully. The Life Mage pressed a kiss to his cheek and hurried after the Earth Mages. He would be able to lead them to the corpse of the dragon since John could sense all forms of life and death. Sherlock, meanwhile, spent his time walking amongst the rest of the group and attempting to do what he’d originally tried with John; he tried to sense what ‘creature’ a person was capable of being transformed into. John was correct in that it was a transmutation skill, but Sherlock was not certain someone outside of Life Magic would be able to sense such a very personal form.

Instead he spent some time hovering around Lestrade and Donovan and trying to ‘sense’ their animal forms in them once more. He kept thinking he saw it on occasion, but wasn’t certain since he was already aware of what their forms would be. When John’s party was gone for a good four hours Sherlock got bored enough to start trying to experiment on the rest of the people around him. He cornered a suitably terrified Fire Mage, drew a few circles in the ground to help focus his Magic, covered him in mud, and started chanting. His mind was visualizing a bird positively bursting with color – something he’d only seen in books and so unlikely to have been influenced by his own opinion – but what he ended up with was a muddy Fire Mage.

Scowling, Sherlock was about to try again when the ground began to quake around him. When the ground above the mine split into sections Sherlock practically held his breath in anticipation, but nothing happened for several more hours. Then the Earth Mages returned… without John.

“Where’s John?” Sherlock snarled, and most of them paled and backed away.

The remaining Mage cleared his throat: “He ordered us to return after splitting the ground. He stated he had to wake the dragon without us present.”

Sherlock swore and stepped towards the mine to intervene, picturing a stiff and helpless John with a stalagmite falling towards his head, when the entire structure shook again. A claw appeared, the flesh much abused and looking more like red-brown leather, and the ground was torn in two as the creature emerged as though being birthed. Ducked behind the crest of the dragon’s six-foot head was John, coughing up dust and brushing pebbles from his hair. Sherlock rushed forward, and then staggered back as the dust nearly overwhelmed him.

“Trust me!” John shouted, “You don’t want to touch it! Or me!”

“You’re able to move and speak!” Sherlock replied in shock.

“It’s a Magical creature! More options available!” John pointed to the dirk protruding from his chest. It made Sherlock a bit sick to see that: as if John were the walking dead instead of the dragon.

The dragon pulled the rest of itself from the cave, the earth screamed in protest, and Sherlock covered his nose and mouth as more dust and debris flew everywhere. Their fire was effectively banked. The dragon’s wings were mostly intact, but they had a Wind Mage with them who would be able to supply them with flight if necessary.

“Bit of luck it being mummified!” Sherlock shouted as John jumped down from its shoulders. The dragon stretched its range of motion behind him while John strode cautiously forward.

“I’ve never wanted a bath more in my life,” John stated instead of replying to Sherlock, “I think I may never eat jerky again.”

“You’ll excuse me not welcoming you back with a kiss, however…” Sherlock motioned to their Water Mage, “Find us some water, if you please, and give John and that bloke in the mud a bath.”

John gave him a relieved grin and made those ‘you’re amazing!’ faces when Sherlock created a little stone bath in the ground for John and the Fire Mage.

“Don’t get too excited,” Sherlock warned, “We will be on the dragon’s back when the attack is launched. I’m going to coat parts of it in earth to keep us from dying of revulsion while we ride it, but it will still be a bit foul. Well, I won’t be bothered, but you, Priyanka, and Impa might. You’re all so _sensitive_ about decay. Gods, a mummified _dragon!_ ”

Sherlock would have gone on to give it a real thorough examination, but was halted by the group’s questions.

“You haven’t mentioned the plan beyond attaining the dragon before now,” Priyanka piped up, much recovered from her previous efforts.

“You’ll be on the dragon with us, I’m afraid,” Sherlock replied to Priyanka, who looked mortified.

John stripped from his clothes, abandoning them in a way that stated he’d never wear them again, and slipped into the hot water filled trench Sherlock had made for him. The Fire Mage waited until John was done before asking the Water Mage for fresh water and bathing himself as well. Sherlock watched with some curiosity as the Water Mage simply guided the water up from the depths of the ground. It appeared hot, which was fascinating. A pity boiling inferi was useless, but he understood Water Mages could create frozen water as well, so perhaps that would be of aid.

“The cave would have had to be dry to create a mummy,” Sherlock wondered.

“Or the dragon would have had to be encased in stone,” John countered, “The Mage who transported it dropped it straight in without guidance. We found a wall blocking our way to the dragon almost immediately and no way around it. The Earth Mages broke through it and then cleared out around the dragon before bursting upwards enough for me to get it out. The caverns that were once in there, the ones I played in as a child, they don’t exist any more. They must have re-formed around the dragon as a kind of tomb when the Transportation spell took effect.”

“Fascinating,” Sherlock admitted, wishing now that he’d gone in to see for himself. It was all destroyed now, so extending his powers showed him nothing but rubble.

Once John and the other Mage had re-dressed in their spare clothing Sherlock called everyone around to go over the plan. They were halfway through the discussion when Lestrade – currently on watch - hissed that someone was approaching. They all cleared out, taking up defensive positions and waited as a man trudged into the clearing, not looking either right or left, and passed right through the center of their camp.

Sherlock had a split second of thinking him an unconcerned naturalist out for a stroll before he recognized the man with a feeling of utter dread and terror. He had never felt such fear in his life and stood frozen in place, simply staring as the man paused before readying a dart in his wooden blowtube. Sherlock had a split second to note that he was most definitely _alive_ rather than a rotting corpse, and then John bolted out of hiding and broke his neck with a blow to the back of the neck with a piece of firewood.

“Run!” Sherlock shouted, “Reconvene around the dragon! Now!”

“Sherlock, he’s dea…” Lestrade started, but Sherlock grabbed John with one hand and Lestrade with another and started running.

Behind him he heard shrieks of alarm from the rest of their party as the inferi rose to his feet once more.

“How could he still live?” The Water Mage screamed, passing Sherlock with surprising speed.

John put two and two together and pushed Sherlock bodily out of the way and into a zig-zag run as the dragon rose up above them. There was a huffing, dried-paper, crackling sound, and then the dragon simply failed to breathe fire at all. Sherlock looked up at it in disgust, but John cried out and pointed to the inferi. It was walking away, headed in the direction of Camelot, if Sherlock wasn’t much mistaken.

“Where’s it going?” John asked in confusion as it lopped off with its head hanging awkwardly to one side.

“It’s going after me,” Sherlock informed.

“No, it’s headed for Camelot,” John replied.

Nearby Sherlock heard Din chuckling in amusement.

“No,” Sherlock corrected, “It’s going after me, _in Camelot_. The Fae can manipulate the passage of time in their forests. I was wondering why we were taking so long to reach our destination, I assume it simply takes more time to walk backwards in time than to skip it.”

“Something like that,” Nayru admitted with a shrug, as though they were discussing a game of darts instead of a poisonous dart-wielding inferi, “And before you ask, of course there are limits.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock scoffed.

“We have to stop it!” John started out after the inferi; “It’s going to attack you in three days!”

“John! No! We can’t just go after it,” Sherlock scolded, “It’s drawn to me by Magic; we’re lucky it isn’t pursuing _this_ me instead of the _past_ Sherlock as it was a moment ago. If it doesn’t reach its destination we will never have forewarning of the inferi invasion and therefore will never have come to this point.”

“Wait… wait…” John replied, shaking his head in confusion, “Then we wouldn’t be here… or would we, but we’d have avoided… no… that’s not possible… I’m confused.”

Sherlock patted his head and earned a scathing look, “Leave it to your betters, John. We need to get a move on. We may have bought time with that neat little Faerie trick, but Moriarty’s undead army won’t be far behind. Unless…”

Sherlock paused and looked at their three Sidhe companions.

“What is it, Sherlock? You’ve gone pale,” John worried.

“This isn’t just about us, is it?” Sherlock asked them, “You wouldn’t bend space and time to save Camelot, no matter how favored King Arthur’s kingdom was and is with your kind. The inferi assassin wasn’t a teasing warning from Moriarty, was it? It was a forerunner. The army had already left the castle: _has_ already left it. The inferi army will soon cross your realm to get to Camelot, and the dead can’t be dissuaded by your tricks. Did he sic them on you as well? What was their order? Kill everything between Caer Parthanon and Camelot?”

“If we tell you what you wish to know it may distort the future we have tried to create. We have been kept partially in the dark as well. If we knew the outcome it might change our actions and cause it not to be,” Nayru replied.

“So for all you know Camelot will be overrun by an army of corpses in three days and I am _here_ ,” Sherlock snarled.

Lestrade paled and Sherlock glanced at John. Unlike Lestrade, he had his love with him. He was safe for now. He could turn and run. He could take John someplace where mad kings and walking dead wouldn’t follow them. He could disappear under the earth, create his own dark utopia beneath the soil, and never emerge again. John had stated in Camelot that he knew his way through the Faerie forest. In an alternate reality he might have led them here and…

No. His John would not abandon the country he now considered himself a part of in order to flee with Sherlock to safety. John was a man of morals and strict laws – laws unto himself, but laws nonetheless. If anything he would have gotten Sherlock into the Faerie forest, knocked him out cold, called on his Fae friends and garnered another debt for Sherlock’s protection while he went back to fight an inferi army alone. There was only one way in which they could come to this point: in which he and John were still alive together.

Sherlock stepped forward and pressed a kiss to John’s forehead.

“What was that for?”

“Belonging to me,” Sherlock whispered, “Because I know you do it willingly and I am grateful for every second of it, though I know I will have to release you some day.”

“I told you: I’m not leaving you.”

“You will. Some day I’ll ask too much.”

“Sherlock…”

“But today is not that day,” Sherlock stepped back and nodded towards the undead dragon still hovering in the air, “How can we get it to breathe fire?”

“Dragons consume flint and eat ethanol-producing plants to breathe fire, but if that isn’t the problem than it may simply be too far rotted. Oh, and lets also consider the fact it might not be able to digest said products in order to create the fire. Ahhh, then there’s the concern the insides might no longer be fireproof and we’ll all go up in smoke with it.”

“First thing first, order it to consume what it needs and we’ll see if that works, but keep it _low_. The inferi army isn’t far…”

Sherlock froze, and then and motioned for silence. He was certain he’d felt _something._ Lowering himself to the ground, Sherlock pressed his ear to the soil and sure enough there he felt the plod of thousands of feet in the distance. The inferi, killing anything they came across as they headed inexorably towards Camelot, were less than a mile away.

“No time, no _time!_ Back into the faerie forest!”

They plunged in and Sherlock only had to glance at Nayru to know that she was holding time still for them.

“John, find what you need, NOW, but don’t leave the forest.”

Animals fled before them as John walked through the woods with a mummified, eyeless, dragon walking at his side like a post-apocalyptic boy and his monstrous dog. Sherlock turned to the rest and ordered them to prepare themselves.

“The moment John sorts the dragon out we’re going to battle. The inferi army will be about a mile away from us. You know what you must do?”

The Fire Mages nodded miserably and stepped aside to join the Sidhe and water mage where they stood quietly; the Fae were serious for the first time since discovering John’s ‘position’ with Sherlock. It was the most telling of reactions. Priyanka stepped forward and took Sherlock’s hand in hers, something he allowed only because of their years of friendship. The Water Mage stood nervously, unsure of her position with the group now that plans had changed.

“What am I to…”

“You will team up with one of the Fire Mages and freeze the feet of the inferi to hold them in position and make killing easier. So will the Earth Mages. Lestrade and Donovan,” Sherlock ordered, “If something goes horribly wrong you two are to flee the countryside. Take the tale to those who can do something about it.”

“That wasn’t the original…” Lestrade started.

“It’s the plan now!” Sherlock snapped, “If we fail there will _be_ no Camelot- hell, there will be no England! Go to India or the Americas and hope that is far enough.”

[CHAPTER EIGHTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/30001.html)


	18. vincentmeoblinn | The Mage's Slave Ch 18

Lestrade and Donovan nodded upon hearing their instructions while the Water Mage wept piteously. Sherlock stepped forward and slipped a finger out to capture her tears. He licked one off of his finger and kept the other until John returned, then he pressed that finger into John’s mouth and watched him blush and suckle it automatically.

“Why…?”

“Nevermind. Did it work?”

“Yes,” John smiled in relief.

Sherlock nodded and garnered the Water Mage’s help to create a mess of mud which he then coated the back of the dragon with to create a sort of saddle. It hardened at their joint command and the dragon dropped low for them to mount.

“It may shift, of course, but the dragon being mummified really is a stroke of luck,” Sherlock marveled, “Could you imagine the stink otherwise? Or the difficulty flying with only wing joints?”

“At least we aren’t _touching_ it,” John sighed.

Priyanka said nothing, but wrapped a scarf around her nose and mouth to dull the moldy stench. Impa was equally silent. They left the forest as one and Sherlock could definitely feel the tremor of feet once the dragon stilled. Up it soared as the Fire Mages scattered with their partners. Once in the air he could see the inferi army ahead of him. It was worse than he’d thought. The dragon would undoubtedly have to do most of the work. The army spread out before them for twenty kilometers on each side and at least one deep.

“He must have slaughtered his entire country!” Priyanka wailed behind them.

“And more than a few of ours,” Sherlock added, “I’m sure he would have started with Camelot’s detainees.”

“We don’t know how long the dragon will last once he starts breathing fire,” John reminded, and Sherlock nodded agreement.

“Start in the west and work your way east,” Sherlock instructed, “Burn as much as possible, but don’t hesitate to leave gaps. We need to stop the masses and leave the remainder for the Fire Mages. If we only take out half then those in the surviving area will not be able to sustain the deluge.”

The dragon swept to the side and began to scorch the earth and the horrific occupants below. It swept from side to side, swimming though the air like a shark in search of blood; always with its head bent to the ground.

“I had it consume quite a bit,” John shouted over the rush, “There was no reason to stop when it would normally be ‘full’.”

Sherlock nodded and checked on Priyanka by glancing over his shoulder. The beautiful Indian woman sat behind them holding her arms steady in the air as she kept them safe from the heat of the dragon’s breath via her Wind Magic. A few more hours of this horrible mission and the real work would begin, but she would be out of danger for most of that. The dragon began to sputter as they grew close to the end of the rows of undead soldiers. Sherlock could see spots of red like glowing coals appearing on its neck in places. It wasn’t long after that they would have received a gush of pure fire and been burnt alive had it not been for Priyanka. Instead they found themselves witness to the creature bursting into flame around them.

“The castle! We must make it to the castle!” Sherlock shouted.

“I’ll try!” John shouted back as the fire curled up around them in a blue and orange burning dome.

Sherlock twisted about as they veered towards the North. He couldn’t see past the billowing smoke. He had no idea if they had been successful. If they had not, then little he did at the castle would matter where Camelot was concerned. Sherlock almost ordered John to turn around, to take out the inferi army in full rather than take the battle to Moriarty, but he knew that with the mad Necromancer alive no one else would survive this horrific purge. At least they had lessened the plague that would soon be descending on Camelot in force within four… maybe five days tops at the rate they were moving. In the mean time Mycroft had his own plan to put in action, but given the new information Sherlock doubted it would succeed.

The castle was coming up fast, but not nearly as quickly as the dragon was burning. They were going down in a ball of flames, the dry flesh of the dragon’s mummified corpse like a giant paper lantern plummeting to earth.

Priyanka screamed on the way down and Sherlock clutched John tightly to his chest, sure they were done for, but at the last moment Priyanka managed to cushion their fall. There, however, their luck ran out.

Fire. Burning everything. Sherlock could feel his clothing adhering to his flesh and then his flesh pealing back. He screamed and screamed and hands grasped his burnt flesh and _pulled_ and he fought them like a wild thing. He was still screaming and clawing when blessed, cool relief smoothed along one of his arms and then across his chest, down his other arm, across his face, down his torso, touching every inch of him. When the pain eased enough he opened his eyes to see John leaning over him, dirk in hand, patches of brown burnt skin on his face and torso slowly reversing themselves into pink and then finally his usual healthy light-brown skin.

“John,” Sherlock gasped.

“Your hair even grew back,” John smiled and ran his fingers through said locks, “Gods, I love your curls. Hold still. I need to check your lungs.”

Sherlock lay for a moment while John concentrated, then he nodded and stood. Sherlock sat up and watched John head over to a burnt mass of human being beside them, moaning in pain and slightly curled in on herself. Sherlock watched anxiously as John healed the figure and closed his eyes sadly when Impa’s figure emerged from beneath the charred wreckage that was slowly becoming a woman again. There were no other bodies in the stairwell they lay in. Priyanka, the only other person to tolerate him besides John, was gone forever. Sherlock levered himself to his feet, his skin sensitive and soft as a newborns, and looked around himself. It was perhaps a bit awkward going into battle stark naked, but dignity was hardly the most important aspect at the moment. Sherlock glanced down at his hand, amazed to find it still clutching his focus, and then had a moment of horror in which he realized it was _melted_ to his hand.

“John, when you’re done there…” Sherlock whispered, sure that guards would be along any moment now, “My hand still appears to be injured.”

“Damn, I’ll be there in a moment,” John replied. Impa rose a moment later, gave them a devastated look, and lowered her head sadly as she too realized what Sherlock already knew.

John returned and winced when he saw Sherlock’s predicament: “This is going to hurt.”

“Probably not. The nerve endings appear to be dead.”

“No, I’m going to have to pry your fingers open, the flesh will tear and you _will_ feel that.”

“Understood.”

Sherlock put his free hand over his mouth to stop himself from screaming and John wrenched his focus free of his bleeding grasp. The flesh tore and Sherlock saw spots and was nearly ill. Then a sensation like cool water flooded him and he was unmarred. He gave his blood and burnt-flesh covered focus a look of disgust and did his best to pick off the worst of it.

Impa and John headed forward, Impa unarmed at the moment, but the first guards they came across provided her with ample weapons. She also took a strip of cloth from a tunic to bind her breasts to keep them out of her way since she was rather well endowed. John’s motions were like dancing. He spun and darted forward and back like a snake, striking places most men did not instinctively protect like hands and feet. The slightest cut from his dirk was instant death and the Magical blade cut through everything from cloth to the hard steal of a sword. Sherlock covered them both from behind, pulling bits of rock up and sending them careening into enemy heads and guts. They rent a path of death into the bowels of the castle.

Soon there were less and less to oppose them; so brutal had Moriarty’s purge been that his own castle was near to deserted. The entered the throne room virtually uncontested to face a shocked and angered king.

“Clever, Sherlock, far more clever than I thought you capable of. Tell me, how did you get here so fast with a dragon in tow? The Indian woman was the only Wind Mage you knew of and she wouldn’t have been able to Transport something so large– especially not an undead one- without collapsing. She was alive until you crashed, I felt her.”

“You upset the Sidhe. Not a smart thing to do, Moriarty,” Sherlock scolded.

“Then you will be indebted to them. Even if I die today you will suffer eventually.”

“Not really,” Sherlock smirked, “The one who aided us was his sister as a changeling.”

“Wha…?!” John started, then scowled at Sherlock for keeping that bit from him, “Sherlock, we _had sex_ in front of her!”

“Not her: him. Din is your Harriet.”

“Oh… that’s… huh…”

Moriarty was chuckling at their exchange, shaking his head and muttering something about ‘pets’, but he sobered momentarily.

“What am I going to do with you two? You’ve utterly ruined my plans.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock replied, flattered, “It was nothing, really.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Yes it was.”

“Well, _yeah,_ okay it was. But the fun is over, Sherlock, _daddy’s had enough now!_ ”

John tensed and turned towards the right and a man slipped from behind a hanging tapestry with two small drawn crossbows, one strapped to each arm. The red tip of each bolt made Sherlock think _poison_ and he had no reason to doubt he was right. Most madmen had patterns, and a poisonous sharpshooter was something Moriarty had used before.

“I believe you remember Colonel _Moran_?” Moriarty chortled, “He’s got a bit of a _grudge_ against your little pet there… and he’s an _excellent_ shot. Now… what can we do to relieve this situation, hm? I mean, here you are… in my home… just waiting to _die_ and I haven’t had time to prepare a welcoming feast! I mean honestly where are your **manners?!”**

“Sorry. Bad childhood,” Sherlock replied calmly.

“Oh, how _sad_. Sorry, but that’s not good enough. Now I was _going_ to send Seb here off to Camelot to kill everyone you love, but… it turns out I don’t have to.”

“Oh no,” John whispered beside him and Sherlock glanced at him and followed his eyes.

From behind a tapestry to the left of the throne emerged Donovan with a knife held to Lestrade’s throat. Her eyes were cold and nearly as dead as the inferi. With one poisonous bolt pointed at John and himself each and a knife on Lestrade his hands were well and truly tied.

“What do you want?” Sherlock hissed, “Land? Power?”

“ _Boooooring!_ ” Moriarty crooned, “I can get that myself, and not even have a mess of pesky people hovering about begging for food and water and _less taxes_. Oh, don’t you just _love_ the world I’m making?”

“People are dying every-”

“That’s what people **DO!** ”

John jumped beside him and Moran raised an eyebrow as if to warn him not to do so again. Sherlock barely restrained himself from grasping the man and tugging him behind him. The bolt would reach John before safety would.

“Then what?” Sherlock asked.

“Your life, Sherlock. You were my challenge, and you’ve come close to outwitting me, I’ll give you that, but you aren’t the _least_ bit clever enough to make the grade. You see… you’re on the side of the angels. You’re ordinary. Dull. The Mage of the People, they call you, and pander to you to fix their problems. Well… I _create_ problems! I am the Eternal Problem. **The Final Problem!!** ”

“You’re mad: mad and delusional. Especially if you think _I’m_ on the side of any angels.”

Moriarty smiled softly and settled back, his red velvet garb wrapping around him like so much flowing blood. His crown was cocked off to one side, gaudy and large rather than elegant and understated like Mycroft’s crown. So much could be deduced from this, yet none of it useful because Moriarty was insane, and insane men were unpredictable until a pattern established or they fell into a previously existing one left by another madman.

“Shall we start simple? Kill the woman.”

“No!” Sherlock shouted, but it was too late.

Impa sprang forward darting left and right and avoiding the first shot from the crossbow, but the mad thing _reloaded itself!_ An invention of Moriarty’s no doubt, a crossbow with a wheel full of ammunition on it capable of firing repeated shots. Sherlock sprang forward intent on getting to Moriarty or at least distracting Moran, he raised his focus but an arm wrapped around his neck and pulled him backwards. He found himself with a dirk to his throat and…

“John,” Sherlock whispered, pain erupting as his heart broke into thousands of razor sharp pieces and likely shredded his entire chest cavity.

“Sire,” John stated, clearly speaking to Moriarty instead of Sherlock, “Would you like his face intact? Or shall I cut out his wretched eyes for you?”

“Oh, **gooood!”** Moriarty crowed clapping his hands maniacally. To their right Impa finally fell with a bow sticking out of her throat. She’d been a foot away from running Moran through when he’d finally got her.

Moriarty stepped down from the dais and approached them: “I have to make sure, John, you understand, don’t you? If there’s blood on that blade given by your hand then it will be harmless.”

“If you’ll have him covered I’ll happily surrender the blade for cleaning- a very careful cleaning- but I beg the honor of killing my rapist myself.”

“John,” Sherlock whispered again, his eyes closing as pain lanced through him once more. Was it really possible for a heart to break twice over the same person? “No… don’t.”

“Oh… look at him _cry._ I could just live this moment forever and ever. So _beautiful_ ,” Moriarty leaned forward and ran a finger through Sherlock’s tears.

Several things happened at once. Moriarty reared back and screamed as the tear on his finger began to burn through his flesh like acid. Moran rushed forward to see what was the matter. Lestrade broke free of Donovan and elbowed her firmly in the solar plexus, and John threw Sherlock forcibly to the ground.

First the flat of John’s hand came up and shoved Moriarty’s nose into his skull, then his dirk shot out and buried itself in Moran’s throat before the man could raise his crossbow. Moran hit the ground, white as chalk, and John ran to him to retrieve his dirk. Lestrade and Donovan were rolling around on the ground in a free-for-all, Donovan swearing like a sailor and Lestrade growling as though he had resumed his fox form. Sherlock snatched his discarded focus up and brought the ground up as shackles around Moriarty’s torso just as John reached him again. To Sherlock’s shock John plunged his dagger into his own eye and then straight into Moriarty’s forehead. The writhing man instantly stiffened and became utterly still.

“So much wasted flesh. Sire…” John whispered, turning to Sherlock and dropping to his knees in supplication before him, “Are you hurt? Please don’t cry! I’m sorry, Sherlock!”

Sherlock crawled shamelessly across the ground and into those spread arms, clutching John to himself tightly. A snap drew his attention back to Donovan and Lestrade… well Lestrade and a corpse that resembled Donovan. Lestrade cleared his throat and nodded his head as though to apologize for interrupting Sherlock and John. He politely turned his back and Sherlock buried his face in John’s neck to breathe in his scent.

“My love,” Sherlock moaned, clutching him tightly.

“I’m so sorry. I never thought I would distress you so much. Tell me you were acting? I never meant to make you cry. I didn’t think you’d _care_ so much.”

“My love,” Sherlock repeated, clutching John tighter. John sobbed and held him tighter, his hands stroking Sherlock’s hair.

“It wouldn’t have harmed you; my blade, I mean. I can’t tell you how I know, but I do. Perhaps when I drank your blood? It doesn’t matter. I’d never kill you. I’d kill myself first.”

_Don’t you think I know that?_ Sherlock thought, but he hadn’t. In that half minute John had held him he had doubted his lover… and his life had meant nothing.

“My love,” Sherlock sobbed, and sat up to tug his exhausted lover tighter into his arms. John pressed his face to Sherlock’s shoulder and it wasn’t long before he was breathing deep and even as Sherlock rocked from side to side with his arms wrapped tightly around him.

Lestrade ripped a tapestry off the wall and brought it too them, shaking it out a bit before wrapping it around their naked bodies. Sherlock nodded his thanks, too tired to care that it was dusty and moth eaten. He let Lestrade wrap him up tightly and curled up on the floor with John tight in his arms. Lestrade walked the perimeter of the room, barring the doors and checking for more hidden entrances. When he was certain they were safe he dragged the corpses aside, leaving Moriarty where he lay, moved a few sconces closer for warmth, grabbed a tapestry as well, and fell asleep by their feet.

  

[CHAPTER NINETEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/30286.html)


	19. vincentmeoblinn | The Mage's Slave Ch 19

Sherlock walked slowly back through the Faerie forest with his arm around John’s shoulders. Din, revealed as Harry Watson, walked ahead of them with the flowing steps of a Sidhe despite only being a changeling. At Harry’s side was Farore; apparently they were betrothed, a fact that had John ecstatic with anticipation of his ‘sister’s’ happiness.

Despite the happy tidings, their march was a somber- if short- one. They were returning to Camelot short every single Mage in their company besides John and Sherlock. Five steps through the forest and they emerged on the opposite side. Their horses waited there, but they and the squire who was to guard them until their return were slaughtered. The countryside stretched out ahead of them, bleak, not from the afternoon rain, but from the utter silence that stretched out around them.

There was no helping it. They walked.

Miles lay between them and the distant castle, but it might as well have been mere meters. All was the same; men, women, children, animals as small as mice and as large as oxen, all lay dead around them.

Yet there was some hope. As they neared Camelot’s surrounding town the streets remained empty but no more bodies were seen. A stray hen or two lay dead, and some rats had been apparently cornered and killed en-masse, but no people or cattle lay dead in these streets. Soon they could hear a repeated heavy bang and they approached cautiously to find a horde of inferi holding a very crude battering ram – really just a felled tree that hadn’t even had its branches chopped off. They were attempting to break down the second set of gates into Caer Camelot, the first set already burnt from where a fire assault had taken place once they had been shattered. The battlements held men at arms that were readying a barrel of tar. The cask was aflame and they were maneuvering it to take out the most inferi possible.

“Fools!” Sherlock hissed, “Hit the ram! They will mindlessly attempt to continue and burn with it!”

“Not likely,” John sighed, “They have no sense of self-preservation, but they’d recognize it as useless and leave to get another.”

“We can’t go in this way,” Lestrade whispered, “What now, Sire?”

“We have two options, sneak into the castle via the hidden routes (or those I make myself) or launch an attack here. How many do you find there, John? And how many out of our sight?”

John closed his eyes and focused, “There are two-hundred-four at the gates, and one-thousand-two-hundred-fifty-three surrounding the entire castle… in all.”

“Damn. Less than I’d dared to hope but more than we can handle. Sneaking in and rejoining our people seems the best…”

“Ahem,” Din smiled at Sherlock, “Perhaps this would be a good time to give you your wedding present.”

Sherlock very nearly lost his temper, but John calmed him with a soft touch.

“What present, Harry?”

“Just this token of my joy for your union.”

Din held out an amulet to Sherlock who accepted it with some confusion. The gems studding the rim caused him to draw in a gasp of surprise. The amulet had the symbol for Earth on one side and Transmutation on the other. It was beyond powerful and Sherlock could _feel_ the Magic radiating through his arm and into his body.

“This is…”

“An ancient focus, yes,” Din replied, “But beware, Mage, you can only use it once and there _will_ be a price.”

“Sherlock,” John cautioned, catching his free hand and looking at him with apprehension.

Sherlock looked around across the square from their hiding spot and studied the undying army before them.

“I never did ask,” Sherlock whispered to John, “What was your ‘order’ to Moriarty when you made him an inferi?”

“Don’t move.”

“That’s it?”

“They can only accept one order, though it can be a bit more complicate than that.”

“So he will be a living statue for the rest of time. His body living but forever unable to move.”

“In a way. Eventually his life expectancy will run out and he’ll die. Then he’ll be a corpse statue for many years until he rots apart. Of course, that’s assuming no one walks into the castle and sets him ablaze.”

“Hmmmm…” Sherlock wondered, and then accessed the magic in the amulet.

For a moment nothing happened, then power thrummed through the city and the ground trembled. The inferi staggered, some falling, but soon they began to sink into the earth around them. A blinding light glared up from the ground around the castle gates and then there was stillness.

Sherlock emerged from his hiding place and surveyed his handiwork.

“John, are there any free?”

“N-no sire,” John replied, staring in amazement at Sherlock’s success.

“What do you think, my love? You inspired it.”

The castle walls and the surrounding ground had been turned into a gigantic wall of crystals, jutting out in some places in sharp angles like branches from a tree. It was mostly clear, but some places took on brown or even orange shades. More alarming than the display of outright power was the fact the crystals had simply sucked in and _devoured_ the inferi. Men and women were frozen within the calcite in tattered clothes, some clearly dead with wounds and weapons piercing them and others appearing still alive. They were almost all attempting to get into the castle via the wall when it had simply absorbed them, so many had their arms outstretched and legs up as though they were swimming through the rock. Those too far away to be taken into the wall had been encased within protruding crystals or even sucked into the ground. The moat, the bridge to which had days ago been destroyed, had several such crystals projecting from its depths.

“I inspired this?” John asked in wonder as Sherlock slipped his arms around his shoulders and guided him forward once more.

“In a matter of speaking: with your growing stairs.”

“Oh! Well, cheers,” John replied, “So what was sacrificed?”

“The aragonite in the limestone.”

John didn’t reply, he had pulled out his focus and was re-growing the castles drawbridge from its tattered and charred remains. Once it was once more intact Sherlock used his Magic to knock down some of the inferi that were barring the way; the inferi-laden crystals were sliced from the bottom and they tipped over like felled trees.

“Those will have to be moved,” Sherlock sighed, “They’d make a far too convenient set of stepping stones.”

Sherlock hailed the men on the battlements and they lowered the drawbridge. Those on the other side, filthy and exhausted from the long siege, gave Sherlock looks of fear and respect as they removed their hats and helmets and stepped back. Sherlock for his part looked neither left nor right, but ascended into the castle to find his brother sitting on his throne looking tired and miserable.

Mycroft let out a cry of relief and rushed forward, pulling Lestrade into his arms. The two kissed passionately before Mycroft stepped back, his hand gently caressing the man’s cheek. Sherlock cleared his throat obnoxiously.

“Yes, yes, I’m glad you are well, too,” Mycroft sneered, returning to the throne with Lestrade in tow, “I highly doubt you would wish to be embraced upon you return.”

“Hardly,” Sherlock replied with a look of disgust.

Lestrade sat himself down in the chair usually reserved for the heir apparent and stared lovingly up at Mycroft. Sherlock noted it with a raised eyebrow, but said nothing.

“The outer provinces?”

“Annihilated. Once we make sure there are no heirs left to the areas between here and Caer Parthanon, I suggest we divvy out the land to second and lower married sons from the south rather than sell off the lands to recoup the losses we acquired during this war. More of our own people will be able to afford taxes if they have their own land to pay with.”

“The largest difficulty with that suggestion,” Mycroft sighed, “Is that our own stores have been nearly depleted while holding as many of the townsfolk here as possible during the siege… what few poor souls made it in before that… _atrocity_ descended upon us.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. There are lands to the north with plenty of food stocked in them and no inhabitants left to eat them.”

Mycroft went still, his face paling.

“Are you telling me,” he practically whispered, “Moriarty slew his _entire kingdom_ to make that army? No! That can’t be! We saw no smoke from your ‘dragon’ solution and there were not enough to be an entire country!”

“Our dragon caught them leaving Caer Parthanon’s closest town, just before the village John grew up in. All the burning was done so far north in Parthanon that you would have seen and smelt little once the wind took it, especially with it blowing northeast the entire time.”

“How is that possible?”

Sherlock sighed, “It’s a long story and we are _very_ tired.”

With that he turned and led his lover away to his rooms… his old rooms. He’d be returning to his new home in Baker’s Mill soon enough, but first a bath and then sleep; hours of sleep, nearly a day of it. They awoke the next morning to find the castle mourning the dead and preparing for the future.

“Where did the Sidhe go?” John wondered.

“Who knows? They come and go as they please,” Sherlock sighed, “Will you go after your sister/brother?”

“Yes,” John replied sheepishly.

“That’s fine,” Sherlock soothed, kissing his temple, “It’s all fine, my love.”

“Your love,” John sighed, as though he didn’t quite believe it, but his eyes returned the sentiment ten fold.

Then he sobered and grasped Sherlock’s arm.

XXX

“I… I have something to confess. You may not… it might be the end of us,” John whispered.

“Then don’t tell me,” Sherlock blurted out, but John merely stared back at him sadly. John waited a moment and saw realization dawn on the genius’ face: “You’ve done something… you’ve killed someone… Priyanka?”

Sherlock drew back in alarm and his husband let him. His face was a picture of betrayal and shock. John wrapped his arms around himself and lowered his eyes sadly, nodding his head.

“Why? She was no threat to you. I have no interest in women, you know that!” Sherlock shouted, his voice distraught; if Mycroft could hear him now he would realize how _wrong_ he was about Sherlock. Priyanka was the only other person beside John to _understand_ Sherlock: brilliant and powerful, sleek and dominant. She had been ‘The Woman’ to him, the only woman who mattered in any way. John knew that and he had taken her away.

“I know,” John replied, “I’d never have come between you even if she was.”

“Then why?!” Sherlock asked, his heart sounding broken.

“We were falling. Her power faltered and she had to switch it over; she had no choice, I know, I don’t blame her for it, but she was only protecting herself in those last few moments. The dragon had ceased to ‘exist’ anymore, so my Magic was free, but that meant the toll for it’s use was being collected. I was going to die, Sherlock, and I would have been fine with that but you were screaming in pain…”

John sank into a chair and looked up at Sherlock, hoping his eyes could convey his pain and remorse. He watched the man’s eyes soften, his shock slip away into sadness and bitter acceptance.

“You did what? Broke through her Wind Magic and took her life to keep yours?”

“Yes,” John sobbed at the stark reality in his statement, “My dirk can cut through anything… apparently it can also cut through a Wind Shield. I turned around while you were blinded with pain and stabbed her. Without my Blood Blessing her Magic and Life flowed out of her and into me. I was still burnt, and so were you, but I had my life and strength back. I was able to drag you and Impa away from the burning remains and heal you both.”

Sherlock sat down on the bed as though someone had pulled a chair out from under him.

“You’re more experienced with these things than I am, John. How many times and how many ways can a heart break before it simply rots out and dies? My mother. Priyanka. You?”

“I’m sorry,” John whispered, “I’ll turn myself in tomorrow just… I wanted to tell you myself, and to tell you I love you and… I didn’t mean to hurt you. I never, _ever_ wanted to hurt you. Gods, I’m so sorry!”

“Do you feel better for having confessed?” Sherlock asked, ignoring the tears running down his cheeks. John wanted to reach out and brush them away, but he didn’t dare touch his beloved now.

“Sorry, what?”

“People tell me confession is good for the soul, that it can relieve a guilty mind.”

“I… suppose,” John replied, wiping tears from his eyes instead, “I do feel less burdened.”

“Good. Here is what is going to happen. In a moment I am going to delete that information from my Mind Palace-“

“-Delete it?” John asked in confusion.

“At that point I won’t know why you’re crying-”

“-Wait, how can you delete something from your mind? Is this part of those experiments you did before we met?”

“You’ll need to come up with a proper excuse… no, wait, you’re a horrible liar. Just leave the room until you calm down. Go find a servant to run us a bath and get us some food situated. Come back once the swelling has gone down in your eyes. In fact… I order you to take an hour and not tell me why I ordered you to do so. There. You can tell me that and it will be true.”

John gave Sherlock a confused look but stood and left nonetheless. When he returned an hour later, after having placed a cold rag across his eyes to take down the swelling, Sherlock was pacing the rooms looking furious.

“Three servants just told _me_ that _you_ told them that you weren’t to return for an hour –on _my orders_ \- but that you wouldn’t tell them _why_ or return or let them tell me where you were! What _exactly_ do you have to say for yourself?”

“You ordered me to leave for an hour and not tell you why when I returned.”

“You’re… telling the truth,” Sherlock replied, eyes narrowed, “Something’s happened and I felt the need to delete it from my Mind Palace. What?”

“You ordered me not to tell you… what exactly is a Mind Palace? You didn’t explain it properly before.”

“You wouldn’t understand, you’ve got an _attic_ and that’s all you need to know.”

“Okay…” John replied, trying not to find this funny.

“You’ve been crying,” Sherlock sighed, “I did something to hurt you.”

“No. No, you did not.”

“John…”

“What can I do to convince you this conversation doesn’t need to happen?” John asked with a sigh.

Sherlock’s eyebrow went up, “You could start by…”

John was already tugging his clothes off before Sherlock’s eyebrow dropped. He launched himself at his husband and prince and tugged his clothes off hungrily. Sherlock whimpered beautifully as they toppled onto the bed together, frotting together hungrily the second they got enough flesh bared.

John spent a few moments nibbling those full lips and licking down to his collarbone before skipping a few inches to flick his tongue over a nipple. He worked the nub until it was pebbled and then sucked and bit it until Sherlock was panting.

“Get _on_ with it! Fuck me already!!”

“Your wish is my command,” John purred, and scrambled for the oil.

He was nervous about preparing Sherlock still, he always felt like he was violating his trust as a doctor, but the man moaned and wriggled so beautifully it was easy for him to forget. Instead he ran his tongue over his cock, hiding the grimace at the taste of his pre-come, and lathed his bollocks while he worked up to three fingers.

“Oh, gods, John!” Sherlock cried out.

“Mmmm,” John agreed, climbing up Sherlock’s body to look him in the eyes as he slowly slid into his body, “Oh, bloody hell, you’re so _tight_!”

“Uhn,” Sherlock gasped, apparently rendered incapable of speech.

John panted a moment, unable to fathom how any part of a human body could feel so _good_ around his cock. Hot, velvety, tight, as he would grip his own cock with his hand, and sucking him into his body as though he couldn’t get enough. John slid out slowly, savoring a sensation he was sure he would _never_ feel again. It very nearly brought tears to his eyes, but he held them back for Sherlock’s sake. He had to protect this brilliant, mad man from his crime. He had to give him every inch of his body and soul to recoup that loss.

John slid in, adjusting his angle and pulling out after a half-slide in, one more try and he had it as Sherlock groaned deep enough for John to feel the vibration around his cock. John moaned and then pulled out and thrust back in sharply, feeling a swell of ecstasy as Sherlock arched his back and cried out eagerly.

John set up a satisfying pace, not too fast or too slow, eager to draw out their lovemaking for as long as possible. He studied Sherlock’s face, watching his pupils dilate and his normally pale face flush.

“I… I…” Sherlock gasped.

“Yes, love,” John breathed.

“Roll me over,” Sherlock growled, his eyes flashing wildly.

John moaned and slipped out of Sherlock helping him turn over and then grasping his hips firmly and pulling him close. He pressed inside, moaning as he pressed past the first ring of muscle and popped back into that perfect silken heat. Sherlock groaned and lowered his head to the mattress, rocking back to meet each of John’s thrusts until slow and steady wasn’t cutting it. John began to pump into him, gripping his hips firmly with both hands. He moaned at the sounds, their bollocks slapping together, the slurp of each thrust into that tight passage. It took him more time to find his prostate like this, but once he did Sherlock began to cry out and buck in pleasure.

“John! Fuck! Yes!”

“Oh, gods, yesss!” John moaned, “Oh, you’re gorgeous! So tight!”

“I’m… I’m coming!” Sherlock cried out, his voice filled with shock; well it might since neither of them had laid a finger on Sherlock’s cock.

“Yes!” John gasped, feeling his passage quiver and clench, “Oh, fuck, yes! Come you brilliant man!”

Sherlock gasped, his entire body going rigid as he came hard onto the mattress and his own body. John growled, his pleasure tightening into a tight spring in his body. Sherlock’s tight clench brought him over the edge and he came hard inside the man before him. Sherlock sobbed into the mattress, though when John eased out and rolled him over his eyes were dry.

“Are you alright?” John worried, though he smiled fondly when he asked.

“Yes. Well… as well as I can be while dying from pleasure.”

“I’m not sure that’s possible,” John chuckled, “Not _medically_ possible, at least.”

“What about love? Can that kill you, doctor?” Sherlock asked with a smirk.

“Oh, yes, it’s quite fatal. I’m afraid there’s no cure at all,” John replied, shaking his head and trying to keep a straight face.

“How long do I have, doctor?” Sherlock asked, pulling off a distressed look quite well.

“Well, it’s hard to say, sire, but I do believe if I continue to stimulate your prostate on a regular basis we _might_ be able to keep you going for a time.”

Sherlock cracked a grin and they both laughed a bit before John pressed a sincere, firm kiss to his lover’s mouth.

“What was that for?” Sherlock wondered.

“Being you, being brilliant, being… my prince. I d’know.”

“Mmm, well then, you’re welcome.”

John smiled and they curled up together, arms wrapped tight and bodies cooling in the air. Sherlock was humming softly to himself, the sort of beautiful tune he often played on his violin. John was certain that at any moment he would pop up and hurry off to dive into some activity, he had that kind of manic energy building in him; John could feel him tensing and quivering beside him.

“Just a moment longer? Please?” John asked.

Sherlock sighed in frustration, but worked on relaxing himself until he was no longer vibrating with tension. Finally John released him.

“Oh, go on!” John sighed, and Sherlock bolted for his lab with a cry of excitement over his shoulder.

“I hope I have enough aluminum!”

[EPILOGUE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/30533.html)


	20. vincentmeoblinn | The Mage's Slave Epilogue

John leaned over Mycroft’s round belly and listened carefully for a heartbeat. He could _feel_ the child inside, of course, but this was for Mycroft. Once he had it isolated he nodded to Mycroft who tugged the device from John’s head and placed it over his own ears. The king held back tears, but only just, and John looked away politely in case they began to fall.

“When?” king Mycroft demanded to know.

“Soon, it’s really up to the baby, your majesty. You’re due in a week by my estimate, but the wee one might choose to come early or late.”

“Not late, surely!”

“I’m afraid so,” John smiled, “They do start being obstinate from the second their conceived, I’m told.”

“He doesn’t get that from me!” Mycroft scowled at his fiancé.

John kept his laughter to himself and left the happy couple to bicker, as was their wont. He couldn’t even begin to understand that relationship or how it had started. They seemed meant for each other, yet they were constantly furious with each other.

_All sorts, I suppose._

John would be staying at the castle until Mycroft delivered, but he doubted Sherlock would leave him alone for that long. He’d probably pop up at some point demanding to know where John had gone as if he didn’t actually know his brother were about to give birth to the first male-carried child in generations. Once the child was born and determined to be of good health the two would be married; Mycroft having put it off out of fear of the people rebelling if the thought no heir would be born. Once the child was presented to the people they would have their union recognized.

John wandered up to the castle’s highest tower and looked across the distance. There was a terrible glare from the crystal walls, but otherwise his view was uninhibited. He could see Baker’s Mill in the distance, their home a beautiful, if rustic, paradise. There John had his clinic and Sherlock his laboratory; though from time to time John had to stop him from experimenting on patients. All in all they had everything their hearts could desire, even a squirmy little bull pup and an old rescue dog named Toby that Sherlock was training to follow scents for the fun of it.

“I thought I’d find you here,” Sherlock’s deep voice sent a shiver down John’s spine.

“Hello, my prince,” John replied, turning and wrapping his arms around his lover’s waist.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Come home.”

John chuckled and pressed a kiss to his lover’s full lips: “Do you want one?”

“One what?”

“A baby,” John laughed.

“Gods, no! That’s the beauty of being gay, no _offspring_ to wake you up at odd hours and demand your attention from more important things!”

John laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks.

“What?” Sherlock asked in confusion.

John was laughing too hard to answer, shaking his head as he recalled the last time Sherlock had woken him in the middle of the night to demand help with an experiment or just to make him listen to him play his violin.

“Do you? Want children, I mean?” Sherlock asked, worry in his voice.

“No,” John gasped, “No, I’m fine with dogs.”

“We have chickens, too,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Yes, dogs and chickens. Perfect.”

Sherlock smiled beatifically, “It is, isn’t it?”

“How do you think Sherrinford is doing?” John asked.

“Considering we left him crawling around on all fours looking for mushrooms…”

“Poor man,” John chuckled sympathetically, “Do you think Harry’s righted him?”

“Probably not. The Sidhe don’t seem particularly interested in doing so. I think they plan on turning that entire kingdom into a vast forest. Having Sherrinford regain his mind and take the throan at Caer Parthanon is hardly in keeping with their plans.”

“You don’t think they’ll hurt him?”

“No, I’m sure they’ll find him a nice sow…”

“Ew. Just. Ew. Change of subject. How is that experiment in blood recognition going?”

“Splendid!” Sherlock replied cheerily, and launched into a detailed explanation.

John tuned his prince out and smiled out across the beautiful panorama before him.

_I don’t deserve this life,_ John thought to himself, _but I’ll try to earn it._

[  
ALTERNATE CHAPTER FOURTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/30767.html)

[  
THE PLAGUE CH 1](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/31550.html)


	21. ALTERNATE CHAPTER 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after Ch 14 of the original story arc: This does not have a happy ending, but it doesn't have a miserable one either.

“Get down!” Sherlock ordered, but John was up on the table and he couldn’t pull him down without putting himself at risk. John, he was sure, would kill himself trying to save him if he were poisoned, “Damn it, John! Get down! That’s an order! Let the knights handle it!!”

John ignored him, running down the table, possibly to get a decent shot at the assassin. Sherlock tried to stand, hoping to use John as a distraction, but the man’s attention was solely on him and he barely avoided being shot. Sherlock heard the _thunk_ of another dart and then a whistle as something flew through the air. Silence followed. John swore then and rolled off the table onto the ground and beneath the table. He crawled quickly towards Sherlock, a look of horror on his face.

“He’s an inferi! I can’t kill him!”

“You’re certain?” Sherlock pleaded.

“Positive. I hit him with my dirk. Only an inferi would be unaffected.”

“Fuck!” Sherlock punched the table above him.

“It’s after you, Sherlock. It won’t stop until it’s been completely dismembered or burnt.”

“Priyanka! Blow him out of that window!” Sherlock shouted, and bolted across the room despite John’s cries for him to come back.

Sherlock zigged and zagged to avoid a shot, but a pinch to his side told him he hadn’t been successful. He tripped and toppled to the floor just as a devastating wind rushed out and knocked the inferi from the window onto the grounds below. John was at his side in an instant, a look of panic on his face.

“Don’t you dare,” Sherlock wheezed.

“Sorry, I can’t hear your orders master, my ears have popped from that wind,” John clearly lied as he pulled the dart from Sherlock’s side.

John closed his eyes as Sherlock felt his throat doing the same, he opened his mouth to argue, but no words would come out just as no air would come in. John was studying him and just as Sherlock’s vision began to fade John began to sing softly. Sherlock’s last thoughts were that he would die hearing John sing himself to death. It was a beautiful and terrible thought.

[ _Lay me doon in the caul caul groon_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z1c60HV-J9k) __  
Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun  
Lay me doon in the caul caul groon  
Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun

 _When they come a wull staun ma groon_  
Staun ma groon al nae be afraid  
  
Thoughts awe hame tak awa ma fear  
Sweat an bluid hide ma veil awe tears  
  
Ains a year say a prayer faur me  
Close yir een an remember me  
  
Nair mair shall a see the sun  
For a fell tae a wyld bloogun  
  
Lay me doon in the caul caul groon  
Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun  
  
Lay me doon in the caul caul groon  
Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun  
  
Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun

 

XXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock woke feeling feverish and achy, and it didn’t help that someone was pounding on his door relentlously. He reached out for John’s arm and gave it a shake.

“Shut them up. If that fails… kill them.”

“He’s asleep, Sherlock. He’s barely ever awake,” Mycroft’s voice sounded… sympathetic?

Sherlock’s eyes flew open, but then he groaned in agony at the burning lights. A breath stirred his hair and the candlelight dimmed from behind his sandy eyelids.

“Better?” Mycroft asked, and gently helped Sherlock sit up.

“Yes,” Sherlock groaned and when he was upright and his head showed no sign of falling off, he opened his eyes and looked to his right.

An old man lay beside him in the bed, his grey hair occasionally spattered with blonde. His facial structure was John’s, but he was wrinkled and the color in his lips had faded. Sherlock pulled his arm from beneath the covers and ran his hands over the paper-thin skin, memorizing the location of each sunspot and watching the wrinkles stretch out and then pop into place again. The thin hand he held in his was covered in blue veins, the strong calluses gone to scratchy dry patches. Johns eyelids were so thin Sherlock wondered that he couldn’t see the blue eyes beneath… unless they were no longer blue.

“Sherlock, perhaps prying his eyes open is not the best…” Mycroft stated, his hand trying to interfere, but Sherlock batted it away, only taking note that it had not aged so it was unlikely that John had matured naturally.

John jumped a bit and both his eyes opened revealing pale-blue rheumy orbs. Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat and then John smiled, love suffusing his steady gaze. The hand he wasn’t holding lifted up and gently caressed Sherlock’s cheek even as a tear trickled down, winding it’s way through wrinkles until it worked it’s way to the corner of John’s mouth. Sherlock leaned down, ignoring his own agony, and kissed the tear away.

The banging in the distance grew louder for a moment and John jumped in alarm, glancing around himself.

“Will you _stop_ that infernal noise?” Sherlock growled at Mycroft.

“Unfortunetly I can not. We are on day three of a siege in the castle.”

“A siege? How long was I unconscious?”

“Four days. They arrived the day after your nearly-successful-assassin, slaughtering every person they came across along the way. We received no warning.”

“John?”

“He has been in and out since then. He collapsed after drawing as much of the poison out of you as he could, but was unable to finish the job. We had a non-Magical Healer stuff you full of herbs and here you are.”

“Shouldn’t you be leading the people?” Sherlock asked as he eased himself back down beside John and pressed close to his chilled… what to call him now? He seemed too fragile to ever make love to again, so was he still a lover?

“There is little to be done. Thousands of inferi beat upon our doors while we rain down boiling oil and flaming furniture upon them. Arrows are useless. A few brave souls have vaulted the sides and taken some down with swords, but they just keep coming. We are running low on wood and oil to burn. We’ve launched a few tar barrels, but it’s been determined to save them until the last. Each man has been issued a knife to slit his throat with when the time comes, but we are determined to take out as many as possible until that end comes.”

“I’m sorry, I was unclear. I meant ‘get out’,” Sherlock replied, running his hands through John’s hair as he slowly drifted off again.

“He can’t be returned to his previous state.”

“Is his dirk with him?”

“Yes, there on the bedside.”

“I’ll need a knife for him for when the time comes, his dirk cannot kill him.”

Mycroft hesitated a moment and then pulled a knife from his hip and placed it down beside John’s dirk.

“You could help, Sherlock. Your brilliant mind-”

“-Can’t fight thousands of inferi. Go have your last slice of cake and then kiss Lestrade’s arse goodbye.”

“He died on the first day,” Mycroft replied, his tone as sad as Sherlock had ever heard, though is voice did not crack.

Sherlock didn’t respond. He could give no consolation. He leaned in and breathed in John’s scent, comforted that it was still the same, and closed his eyes to enjoy what little life he had left.

“My prince,” John whispered in his sleep, his voice reedy.

That was what broke Sherlock. His lover’s once soothing, sarcastic voice reduced to throaty and pathetic. Sherlock sobbed, his hand stroking John’s hair as he shook in misery. John’s rolled to the side and pressed close to him and Sherlock gently tucked his head beneath his chin as he whimpered his name. John’s frail hand gently petted his back and the man soon slipped back into slumber, his breath soft and steady.

Sherlock dried his eyes and slipped out of the bed, tucking him in tightly so he wouldn’t catch a chill. He searched a moment and found a recently worn tunic and pressed it to his face, breathing in John’s scent. Once dressed, he tucked it into the sash at his hip beside his focus before heading out into the hall. He found a servant seated outside on a mat on the floor, she stood instantly and bowed to him.

“My husband will need watching while I am away.”

“Yes, sire, that’s why I’m here. Is he ready to be changed?”

“Changed?”

“His… nappy, sire,” The girl supplied, keeping her face admirably blank.

“No, not that I noticed. What was your name?” Sherlock asked, making sure he paid her homage by keeping his blank as well.

“Kristie, sire.”

“Are you the only servant who ‘changes’ John?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Very good. Kristie, I’m going to delete this conversation from my memory. In the future I want you to make sure I’m never aware of John’s… situation.”

“Yes, sire. I… I’ll try.”

“Excellent, you do that,” Sherlock smiled warmly and then hurried away.

As he walked down the hall, his misery was slowly transformed into seething rage. He noted that there were no longer windows and the hall was beyond musty. Instead there were small holes in the ceiling, likely leading up to where some windows still existed. An Earth Mage had been to work in the castle, which meant they had at least one here still. If there were five…

“Sherlock,” Mycroft’s voice interrupted his thoughts, “I didn’t expect to see you again.”

“Brother dear,” Sherlock growled, “How many Earth Mages are in this building.”

“Five.”

“Perfect. I need to see them. Now.”

XXXXXXXXX

Sherlock paced irritably until the five Mages arrived in the throne room. A few minutes in their presence drew a flaw to his plan. Only three of them were capable of Transmutation Magic. He spent three hours attempting to get the other two to learn Transmutation Magic, but Mycroft and two knights dragged him off after one of them fainted.

“What the hell are you trying to do?” Mycroft snapped.

“Have them transmute John back into a young man again.”

“Why am I not shocked? Half the castle is convinced you’re going to save us all!”

“Half the castle? My gods, I thought I’d met more of the populace than that.”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft shouted, “Don’t you even care that everyone is dying around you?!”

“Let me think…” Sherlock posed, “No.”

“Let’s think for a moment, Sherlock. Assuming you _can_ reverse someone’s age, what will you do once you do succeed in Transmuting him? There are still inferi breaking down our doors.”

“Die. Happily,” Sherlock snarled, “Preferably with his cock up my arse!”

Mycroft gave him a disgusted look and stormed off, but when Sherlock went back to the throne room the Mages had already fled. Furious he headed back down to his rooms to talk to John. He found his lover much as he’d left him; old and sleeping. He also found him with company.

“You know, his aging is incomplete,” A pale Sidhe man (changeling, indeterminate age, limited magical abilities, hiding something) with dirty blonde hair looked up from where he was sitting at John’s side on the bed, “He could conceivably live a full life with proper care. He may even start to regress back to a younger age… settle in a sort of middle ground.”

“How comforting. You would be?”

“Harry Watson.”


	22. ALTERNATE CHAPTER 15

“Harry Watson? As in Harriet Watson?”

“Sometimes, though at the moment I’m Harry.”

“ _Really_ more information than I needed.”

“Do you make him laugh? He always said he wanted someone who made him laugh.”

“I try to,” Sherlock replied, and stepped forward to brush John’s hair aside.

“My prince,” John sighed, stirring a bit and reaching out for his hand.

Sherlock captured the hand and pressed his lips to the back of it before stroking it gently.

“Can Faerie Magic restore him?”

“He sacrificed himself. Such a thing cannot be reversed without another sacrifice. What would you choose? His life expectancy? His mind? His soul?”

“No… No, that’s not true. I sacrificed walls to change people into animals once in a fit of Wild Magic. I changed them back from ash to stone again.”

“Wild Magic has it’s own rules, but I doubt the restored wall will last more than a year. Is a year enough time for you to spend with my brother?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, he simply watched her quietly, waiting for more options. Sidhe always gave you options; usually something along the lines of burning to death or being eaten by wargs, but options nonetheless. The changeling smiled slowly and then pulled an amulet out of her garbs.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen this way,” Harry explained, “You were to be in a different place three days ago, and John uninjured. It was all foreseen and planned out, but time cannot be controlled and no one has only one true fate. That being said, we are all capable of changing our own. This amulet will give you a burst of power that will allow you to perform one feet of great Transmutation Magic. You could either save the country or you could save John… of course, you can’t _really_ save John. Not without saving the country.”

Harry pressed a kiss on John’s forehead, then stood and placed the amulet in Sherlock’s hands before slowly leaving the room. He turned it over slowly in his hands, studying the engraving on both sides. The symbols for Earth and Transmutation; it was clearly a very ancient focus. Chances were that he could use it to alter John’s form, but changing the shape of something as a rule did not change _what_ it was. John the bat was still John in both mind and sexuality; only his form had changed. He would not have lived a bat’s lifespan. He would have lived a man’s lifespan.

“John,” Sherlock sighed, “I have to make a rather difficult decision. In fact, I don’t believe there _is_ a decision to make, but then there rarely is with the Sidhe.”

John’s eyes opened a moment and he smiled up at Sherlock, who grinned when he saw John’s teeth were still young and white.

“I have more energy today,” John whispered, “I think I can stand up for a bit.”

“Don’t strain yourself,” Sherlock scolded lightly, kissing his hand again, “Tell me about inferi. They must be burnt or dismembered to be killed?”

“Only burning destroys them, but dismembering is effective in slowing down and perhaps stopping them. They are altered with the focus of a necromancer. The focus is first plunged into the necromancer’s eye to collect his order and then stabbed into the victim’s brain at the base of the spine. The person continues to live unless something actively kills them – not starvation or old age. They continue to exist until burnt to ash.”

“So I’m supposed to… what? Transmute them to ash?”

John laughed lightly, his eyes dancing like they used to… five days ago.

“Or I could Transmute you into a young man again and we can die in each others arms.”

“We can die in each others arms now.”

“I was being polite. I meant while you bugger me senseless.”

“Mmm, sorry. Don’t think that part works anymore.”

“Exactly my point,” Sherlock smirked and bussed his forehead.

“Sherlock,” John sighed, “You can’t let all those people die. I’m not worth that.”

“You’re worth… so much more than that. So much more than anyone. So much more than me.”

“You… you’re brilliant. You’re… my…” John’s breathing evened out and Sherlock pressed another kiss to his temple.

Sherlock watched John sleep peacefully for a while before standing and beginning to look through his books and scrolls. A few pages in he ran across a sketch of a dragon and everything seemed to fall into place. Sherlock took John’s dirk from the bedside table, pressed a kiss to his lips, and headed out to the battlements.

No one tried to stop him. Sherlock’s face was drawn with determination and the exausted guards and knights parted before him. Sherlock stepped up onto the battlements, ignoring the arrows that whizzed past his head. Sherlock held John’s dirk in one hand and both his focus and the Sidhe one in his other hand. A few changed words and his body was stretching and straining. Arrows bounced off of his chest and he threw his head back and roared his outrage at the world. He wasn’t a particularly gigantic dragon– only about twenty feet long from snout to tail- but the real power was in his lungs, not his limbs. He spread pitch black wings and few into the sky with ease.

He found he had a few instincts at his disposal, so after amusing himself by tearing a few inferi to shreds manually, he flew back into the air to find what he needed to breathe fire. It was no hardship to locate flint. Hell, he didn’t even have to leave town. He found a shop, tore the roof off, and devoured it. Then a quick trip to a bog and he was ready to go.

Sherlock swooped down, ignoring the cheering soldiers on the battlements (idiots) and breathed a blue streak of dragonfire down on the inferi below. If he expected them to scream as they burnt away to nothing he was disappointed; they died as silently as they fought, their bodies simply withering away beneath his gaping maw. He circled back, waiting for the smoke to clear, and shot multiple fireballs into the remaining squirming masses of limbs below. When he could no longer see movement on the ground he turned himself to the North and flew fast and hard, his eyes burning with hatred and rage. Never had he allowed himself to engage in the senseless violence he sometimes craved, but now he would see blood spilled by his own claws and he would devour James Moriarty’s body as he took his vengeance.

Sherlock flew for over a day, landing on the battlements of the nearly deserted castle of Caer Parthanon in the lingering twilight. He spared a glance for the beautiful sunset over the sea, his mind still with his lover, and then gripped his focus tightly as he roared to the stone beneath him. He had no finesse in his dragon form, but dragons were Magical creatures and he was an Earth Mage so the stone beneath him crumbled away. Layer upon layer of castle he tore down, dissecting the building like a biology project as he searched through each and every section of it. Guards met him on occasion, but he saved his fire and simply crushed them into walls or floors. Moriarty would not run, of that he was sure; the king was waiting for him. They would fight each other, dragon to man, as it was always meant to be.

Finally he reached the throne room where James Moriarty sat on his throne, wrapped in red velvet and adorned with jewels and one rather large crown.

“No rush,” He stated coolly once the debris from Sherlock dropping through his ceiling had settled.

Sherlock snarled, a deep growl rattling in his throat. He threw John’s dirk onto the ground and Moriarty glanced down at it in surprise.

“Ohhh? Did my assassin miss and get your little _pet_? Or are you actually John? I’d be disappointed if you were, _really_ I would. So… _ordinary_ , despite his being a Necromancer like myself.”

Sherlock wasn’t shocked to find Moriarty was the Necromancer, though he was surprised to see Colonel Moran step out of the shadows beside him considering he’d thought the man dead a month ago. The man smirked at Sherlock held up a small crossbow, and then in a swirl of wind vanished from Sherlock’s sight.

_Wind Mage! Where has he gone?_

“Oh, don’t worry, Sherlock, he’s nowhere _near_ here,” Moriarty smirked, “His bolts would be useless on a dragon, anyway. He’s in _Camelot._ ”

_John!!_

“ _Yes_ ,” Moriarty nodded as though reading his mind, “I can feel your heart racing from here; so _convenient_ this so-called Life Magic. You’re as easy to read as a _book_. You fear for your silly pet’s life! You have good reason to. My _dear_ Seb has instructions to seek out and kill your pet, your knight, and your brothers… hmmm… so the knight is _already_ dead? Pity. Well, I’m _sure_ we can find a way to burn the heart out of you still. By the way, I never _did_ get a chance to thank you for your gift.”

Moriarty indicate a plinth off to the side where a sediment-covered half-corpse stood propped up by what looked like a small tree growing out of the marble beneath it. The tree was quite dead now, it’s branches bleached as white as bone, but the odd bonsai served to support the limbs in a standing position as if his father’s lower torso were a mannequin.

Sherlock couldn’t help himself. He laughed. Anyone else who had heard a dragon laugh would have pissed themselves in horror, but Moriarty blushed and smiled as though paid the most sincere and flattering comment. Sherlock ignored him and instead tried to work out what to do now that an assassin was stalking the halls of Camelot. There was no way to get back in time to stop him, not without a Wind Mage at his disposal.

“You’re wondering what my _terms_ are?” Moriarty asked in that lilting voice of his.

Sherlock nodded.

“Your life. Take your _sweet little Life Mage’s dirk_ and **stab** **yourself with it**!!” Moriarty screamed the last bit before dropping back to a soft lilting voice, “End your _miserable_ existence and your comrades will live.”

Sherlock’s mind turned that over, but it didn’t add up. How would the assassin know not to kill them?

“ _Easily_ ,” Moriarty chirped in answer to his unvoiced, “If he _doesn’t_ hear from me by the end of _today_ , he’ll kill your friends. If he _does_ hear from me he’ll pop off.”

 _So there’s another Wind Mage here to transport him or a message_.

“So you see,” Moriarty smiled slowly, “If you kill me you kill your loved ones. If you kill yourself you save them. Which will you choose, Prince of the People… because that _is_ what they call you: The Mage who is on the side of the angels… _so_ _romantic_.”

Sherlock cast about with his dragon senses, trying to harness the Magical Creature’s ability to sense other Magic. He could feel several Mages in the castle besides himself and Moriarty, but none of them close enough. His skills while in dragon form were too rusty to transport them into the room as he had his father’s corpse. Even if they were, he would have to find a way to communicate with them in order to force them to take him back to Camelot. He doubted they’d be calm enough to read a message he scratched on the wall.

What Moriarty didn’t know was what awaited him back in Camelot. Lestrade dead. His brothers he had never been close to. John… John a withered husk of himself likely to sleep the rest of his existence away, perhaps gaining strength again in ten years or so, but otherwise… Sherlock faced a lifetime of sitting by his beloved’s bedside and watching him sleep like some twisted Grimm faerie tale.

Sherlock picked up the dirk, his claws fumbling with the sheath.

“Oh, here, let me help,” Moriarty offered cheerfully.

The spry king hopped down from the throne, leaving his velvet wrapping behind, and strode forward. He was an attractive man, and under different circumstances Sherlock might have courted him. It all could have been so different. This man could have been his husband, their neighboring countries united in peace. John could have been his dear, beloved catamite given everything he wanted and left in relative peace for the rest of his life: his only duty to share Sherlock’s bed and love him as he already did.

Moriarty slipped the sheath off and held the dirk by the blade, having no fear of cutting himself since he was a Life Mage as well. Sherlock took the tiny thing between thumb and forefinger on his clawed ‘hand’. He held it a moment, steadying his grip, then plunged it into his opposite hand.

Pain flowed through him. Agony unlike anything he’d ever felt and he threw his head back and screamed his pain to the sky. Up through the castle, straight up as he had dropped down from above in a straight line, a column of fire as he emptied his belly of its burning contents in an instinctive attempt to rid the burning fire from his veins. For a moment the dark blue sky was concealed by a column of blue and orange fire, then there was darkness and the world tipped. Sherlock felt his heart slowing… slowing… slowing…

“I don’t care _how_ difficult it is! I still want him pickled and placed in a jar!”

“Sire, If I may make a suggestion?”

“Of _course_ Sebby, darling, you are always free to speak.”

“Perhaps your abilities could be used to preserve him somehow and then we could put him in a glass jar once the blowers are done creating a jar big enough to contain a dragon.”

 “I suppose I could,” Moriarty sighed, “but then there’s the fact that _I_ am king and shouldn’t have to…”

Sherlock knew he’d been discovered as alive when Moriarty stilled. John could sense all life around him, surely so could Moriarty. He acted instinctively, launching forward and snapping his jaws across Moriarty’s body. The man screamed from Sherlock’s jaws as he was shaken back and forth like a hound with a duck. He had pulled a knife from somewhere, but was in too much pain to make use of it and it eventually clattered to the ground. A gleam of gems let Sherlock know that it was his focus; he probably would not have survived another jab from a Life and Death focus, it was already a miracle he had survived the first. Eventually a sickening snap rent the air and Sherlock dropped Moriarty’s body in order to focus his eyesight on the Wind Mage who was currently slicing at him with a sword.

_Fool. That can’t cut my flesh!_

Sherlock’s claw lashed out and blood sprayed across the room. Sherlock leaned down and further finished the job by ripping Moriarty’s guts from his body and spitting them across the room. He continued to tear the man to shreds until nothing was left of his body except a pile of warm, wet, red, stinking vitriol. Done with his arduous task, Sherlock sought out the other Mages in the castle and quickly went hunting for them, forcing his way through passageways by sheer brute strength or his own magic. The Wind Mage escaped when Sherlock attempted to spit fire at him only to find himself empty of it. With a scream of terror the woman vanished in a swirl of wind and Sherlock’s stomach plunged in fear. Would she go hunting for John as her last order had been? Or flee to safety?


	23. ALTERNATE ENDING

Sherlock worked his way back out of the castle, ignoring the aches in his body, and flew the long distance back to Camelot. He stopped once to renew his fire, drink from a river, and wash his blood-soaked hide. He had an odd moment in which he saw a bit of something shiny on the ground and snatched it up, carrying it with John’s precious dirk and his own focus. He reached the castle in the darkest part of night and landed on the rooftops. He looked around himself, momentarily confused.

_Why am I here? This is a human place._

Sherlock struggled with himself for a moment and found his mind once more.

_John._

“Sherlock!” A voice called from below, and Sherlock twisted about, growling low at the newcomer.

“Majesty! Please! He’s been in that form too long! His mind will be gone!” An Earth Mage had run across the grounds to Mycroft’s side and was trying to bodily drag him inside.

“Unhand me! That is my brother, no matter what form he is in!”

“He is a beast! He’ll destroy us all!”

“He’s here for his hoard, you fool!” Mycroft broke free and shouted for a guard, “Bring John out here! Quickly! He’ll pacify my brother until we can get the rest of the Earth Mages out of bed.”

Sherlock waited, his mind flickering back and forth… _Human stink! Burn them all and take this fine stone structure for yourself. Fill it with gold and… gold and… John. John. I must get to John! Where is he? Is he harmed? My aged love… gold… metal that glows like fire and feel of warmth and soft comfort. A pile to sleep in and another to admire… a big, bright golden shield to admire my scales in… John… my John… my…_

“Sherlock!” John’s voice pierced through the fog and the dragon that Sherlock was slowly becoming crooned eagerly.

Sherlock descended into the courtyard and hurried forward. John was on his own two feet again! Not as young as when they had met, but surely not more than ten years older. Sherlock held out his clawed hands and John accepted his dirk back. Sherlock piled the rest of his small hoard at John’s feet; an oddly shaped metal object full of opals and one large citrine, and a bronze shield. He was ashamed of his hoard. It needed gold. Such foul things didn’t deserve to rest at his mate’s feet.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, stepping forward he wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s large head and pressed a kiss between his eyes, “My beautiful prince. You saved me. I felt it. I was so afraid… I thought you had died. I felt your heart stop and life fill me up again.”

_My mate is crying! What has upset my mate?!_

Sherlock snarled and pulled away, glaring at the humans around him and rising up. He used one careful clawed paw to push his mate to the ground and stood over him, snarling at the humans who dared to upset him.

“Quickly!” One of them hissed, “Transmute him back!”

“We need to cover him in clay...” One of the humans whimpered in fear.

“I’ll do it,” John insisted, “Just bring it here.”

Sherlock pulled away from John, horrified by his behavior, and cast about in alarm. He scrawled into the ground with a claw.

**_Flee me. My mind is going. I must be slain. - SH_ **

“There are Earth Mages here. They’ll Transmute you back,” John insisted.

**_Need five. Only three. Fail. – SH_ **

“The Sidhe are here, too; three of them. They’ll work on you, too. They helped me when you were away. They formed some sort of circle and started chanting and when my dirk stabbed you – I felt it happen – then they used the blood I’d consumed from you while a bat to restore me to… well, not quite youth, but most of my youth. I feel fit, at least.”

The Sidhe slipped into the courtyard, shimmering out of the shadows as though they had Transported there, though that hadn’t occurred, of course. They gave Sherlock a sad look and shook their heads.

“It won’t work,” The oldest stated, “His magic was altered when he was stabbed; he died and was reborn, but it was in the form of a dragon. He will remain a dragon forever.”

“Then… Then he’ll continue to loose his mind? He’ll be more dragon-like every day?”

“He’ll be completely dragon-minded by dawn,” The changeling supplied sadly, “I suggest the king lure him away with a mound of gold and find him a cave to occupy. Once there he’ll only bother the local farmers cattle. If anything, he’ll be an asset to the kingdom as a bribe of gold or jewels will have him protecting your kingdom. Dragons aren’t stupid beasts, after all. They can be reasoned with, and more often than not will wait to be spoken to before simply killing whoever wanders into their lair.”

“How… comforting,” Mycroft sighed.

**_Don’t let me hurt John._** **_– SH_**

“You’d never hurt me,” John comforted.

“Indeed, I doubt he would. He likely considers you part of his hoard, if not his mate,” Mycroft supplied, “Which is quite inconvenient as it means John will have to go with Sherlock. He can hardly survive in a cave.”

“Not in this form,” laughed the changeling.

John smiled eagerly and nodded his head, “Of course! Change me! A vampire bat can survive in a cave. I can feed off the blood of the cattle he collects.”

“You must be joking!” Mycroft replied in horror, “Even if that were an acceptable solution, I can’t let a Life and Death Mage of such power…”

Mycroft never got to finish his angry announcement. The Sidhe stepped forward and surrounded him and he stilled in fear, cowed by the power of the Faerie people. One of them nodded to an Earth Mage who approached John hesitantly. Sherlock growled instinctively, but was soon soothed by the caress of his mate’s hand across his muzzle. A large, squat pot of clay was placed at John’s feet and he used Sherlock’s snout as leverage as he stepped into it. The Mage chanted for several minutes and the clay vanished and a bat took John’s place. John fluttered about a moment, circling the dragon’s head.

“There is a cave system to the south,” Mycroft advised, “It is a ground system, and parts are flooded with water, but there are many that will be large enough for you both.”

_Beautiful. Beautiful winged thing! My mate is small but swift._

The bat flew up into the darkened sky and the dragon quickly collected his hoard and followed after. Up they flew into the starry sky, Sherlock lazily looping around his beloved as the bat flew due south for a time. Come morning the rested, his small love curled up on his snout as they both slept in exhaustion, warmed by the sun that beat down across their backs. Sherlock stretched when the heat left the world and they once more flew into the cold night air, letting movement warm their bodies. They reached the caves not long after that and Sherlock and John explored them until they found a suitable home. It was open to one end, curved to the right to keep drafts out, and was quite dry and roomy. Sherlock placed his meager hoard on the ground and whined at how paltry it was. He would have to find more to console him. Perhaps at that castle he had left not long ago? Humans also kept hoards, and they were rather easy to steal from.

Once Sherlock saw John fed and settled comfortably he flew back towards the castle. It would be a much faster flight without his mate with him, as the little winged darling couldn’t fly half as fast as Sherlock could alone. He was halfway there when he caught the glint of fire on gold. Glancing down he saw a wagon being pulled by several mules with a team of armed men as escort. It was full to the brim with _gold_ and not even covered! In fact, the humans seemed to be reflecting their lantern light off of it on purpose.

_An offering! They bring me gold to welcome me! I will honor them with my respect for such a proper deed_.

Sherlock descended, watching them reign in the terrified beasts. He hoped he could make off with them as well. They looked delicious. He approached the humans without malice, keeping his motions regal and unaggressive. Sure enough, they unhooked the mules and tugged them away from him, leaving the cart full of gold for Sherlock. Sherlock nodded his head to the group of trembling soldiers, flapped his wings until he was steadily hovering above the cart, and then took off into the air with it grasped in all four paws. He pushed the cart head of himself into his cavern and dumped it’s contents onto the small pile he’d already amassed, burying the dirk, studded metal thing, and shield he’d originally offered to his love. His dear sweet creature fluttered down from the ceiling and alighted upon their hoard, inspecting it while squeaking softly in apparent approval. John fluttered up to his side and scrambled about his head, his claws tickling the dragon, which chuckled appreciatively at his beloved’s touch.

_A shame he’s too small to mount me._ The dragon thought, though it hardly distressed him overmuch. He could satisfy himself with a few swipes of his tongue, as his love was doing to himself at the moment while curled up on one forepaw. Sherlock settled down comfortably on the pile of gold. He had been busy these last few days and his body was tired and worn. He would sleep for a few weeks and rebuild his strength before heading out to catch more food and perhaps collect some abandoned bits of this and that. The populace had been kind in gifting him this small horde, so he wouldn’t raid or kill them unless the actively bothered him.

His love came with a squeak and then settled down to sleep as well. Sherlock sighed happily and gently nuzzled the small ball of fur and skin, which crawled from his forepaw to his nose and settled where he could be warmed by the passage of Sherlock’s breath through his nasal passage. Sherlock closed his eyes and relaxed completely. He had everything he needed and more. What complaint could a dragon have?


End file.
